mMe  -STORY-  HOUR 


KBOOK-  FORTHe 
HOMC  *AND-THe  jj 
K1ND6R©HRT6N  « 


BY  KHT8   DOU6LHS  WI6G1N 
HND  NORH    K^SMITH   -*» 


PSYCH. 
LIBRARY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

Bequest  of 
Professor 
Warner  Brown 


^.  ///^ 


3Soofcfii  bp  J&ate  SDottalaa  ^tfffftn 


MOTHER  CAREY'S  CHICKENS.     Illustrated 

ROBINETTA.     Illustrated. 

SUSANNA  AND  SUE.     Illustrated. 

THE  OLD  PEABODY  PEW.     Illustrated. 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK  FARM. 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK  FARM.  Holiday  Edition.  Il- 
lustrated. 

NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA.     Illustrated. 

ROSE  O'  THE  RIVER.     Illustrated  in  color. 

THE  AFFAIR  AT  THE  INN.     Illustrated. 

THE  BIRDS'  CHRISTMAS  CAROL.     Illustrated. 

THE  STORY  OF  PATSY.     Illustrated. 

THE  DIARY  OF  A  GOOSE  GIRL.     Illustrated. 

A  CATHEDRAL  COURTSHIP,  and  PENELOPE'S  ENG- 
LISH  EXPERIENCES.     Illustrated. 

A  CATHEDRAL  COURTSHIP.  Holiday  Edition,  enlarged.  Il- 
lustrated by  C.  E.  Brock. 

PENELOPE'S  PROGRESS.    (In  Scotland.) 

PENELOPE'S  IRISH  EXPERIENCES. 

PENELOPE'S  EXPERIENCES.  I.  England;  II.  Scotland;  III. 
Ireland  ;  Holiday  Edition.  With  many  illustrations  by  Charles  E. 
Brock. 

TIMOTHY'S  QUEST.  A  Story  for  Anybody,  Young  or  Old,  who 
cares  to  read  it.     Holiday  Edition.     Illustrated. 

POLLY  OLIVER'S  PROBLEM.     Illustrated. 

MARM  LISA. 

THE  VILLAGE  WATCH-TOWER. 

A  SUMMER  IN  A  CANON.    A  California  Story.     Illustrated. 

NINE  LOVE  SONGS  AND  A  CAROL.  Music  by  Mrs.  Wig- 
gin.     Words  by  Hkrrick,  Sill,  and  others, 

4Sp  f&x*.  Wi$$ixi  an* 
fflLixx  Jfrara  aufjtbalti  §>mit$> 

THE  STORY  HOUR.    A  Book  for  the  Home  and  Kindergarten. 

Illustrated. 
CHILDREN'S  RIGHTS.    A  Book  of  Nursery  Logic. 
THE  REPUBLIC  OF  CHILDHOOD.     In  three  volumes. 

I.     FROEBEL'S  GIFTS. 
II.    FROEBEL'S  OCCUPATIONS. 
III.     KINDERGARTEN  PRINCIPLES  AND  PRACTICE. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


"IT  WAS  THE  BOY  WHO   LIVED  ACROSS  THE   STREET"     (page  141) 


THE  STORY  HOUR 


A  BOOK  FOR   THE  HOME  AND   THE 
KINDER  GAR  TEN 


BY 

KATE   DOUGLAS  WIGGIN 

AND 

NORA  A.  SMITH 


Therefore  ear  and  heart  open  to  the  genuine  story-teller 
as  /lowers  open  to  tis  spring  sun  and  the  May  rain. 

Friedrich  FroebeZ' 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1890, 
By  KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN  and  NORA  A.  SMITH 

All  rights  reserved. 


EDUC- 
PSYCH. 
LIBRARY 


GIFT 


CONTENTS. 


ta.uc>  -■ 


Introduction.    Kate  Douglas  Wiggin ,    •  6 

Preface.    Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  and  Nora  A.  Smith     .    •  27 

The  Oriole's  Nest.    Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 29 

Dicky  Smiley's  Birthday.     Kate  Douglas  Wiggin       .    .  38 

Aqua  ;   or,  The  Water  Baby.     Kate  Douglas  Wiggin   .  52 

Moufploc.  Adapted  from  Ouida  by  Nora  A.  Smith  .  .  59 
Benjy  in  Beastland.      Adapted  from  Mrs.   Ewing  by 

Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  and  Nora  A.  Smith 72 

The  Porcelain  Stove.     Adapted  from  Ouida  by  Kate 

Douglas  Wiggin 83 

The  Babes  in  the  Wood.     E.  S.  Smith 96 

The  Story  of  Christmas.     Nora  A,  Smith 101 

The  First  Thanksgiving  Day.-    Nora  A.  Smith    .    .    .  107 

Little  George  Washington.     Part  L    Nora  A.  Smith  .  115 

Great  George  Washington.    Part  II.    Nora  A.  Smith  123 

The  Maple-Lfaf  and  the  Violet.     Nora  A,  Smith     .  133 

Mrs.  Chinchilla.    Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 139 

A  Story  of  the  Forest.     Nora  A.  Smith 146 

Piccola.    Nora  A.  Smith 156 

The  Child  and  the  World.     Kate  Douglas  Wiggin .    .  165 

When  I  was  a  Little  Girl.    Kate  Douglas  Wiggin       .  168 

Froebel's  Birthdav.     Nora  A.  Smith 179 


727 


INTRODUCTION. 

Story-telling,  like  letter-writing,  is  going 
out  of  fashion.  There  are  no  modern  Sche- 
herezades,  and  the  Sultans  nowadays  have  to 
be  amused  in  a  different  fashion.  But,  for 
that  matter,  a  hundred  poetic  pastimes  of 
leisure  have  fled  before  the  relentless  Hurry 
Demon  who  governs  this  prosaic  nineteenth 
century.  The  Wandering  Minstrel  is  gone, 
and  the  Troubadour,  and  the  Court  of  Love, 
and  the  King's  Fool,  and  the  Round  Table, 
and  with  them  the  Story-Teller. 

"Come,  tell  us  a  story !  "  It  is  the  familiar 
plea  of  childhood.  Unhappy  he  who  has  not 
been  assailed  with  it  again  and  again.  Thrice 
miserable  she  who  can  be  consigned  to  worse 
than  oblivion  by  the  scathing  criticism,  "  She 
does  n't  know  any  stories  !  "  and  thrice  blessed 
she  who  is  recognized  at  a  glance  as  a  person 
likely  to  be  full  to  the  brim  of  them. 

There  are  few  preliminaries  and  no  formali- 
ties when  the  Person  with  a  Story  is  found. 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

The  motherly  little  sister  stands  by  the  side 
of  her  chair,  two  or  three  of  the  smaller  fry 
perch  on  the  arms,  and  the  baby  climbs  up 
into  her  lap  (such  a  person  always  has  a  capa- 
cious lap),  and  folds  his  fat  hands  placidly. 
Then  there  is  a  deep  sigh  of  blissful  expecta- 
tion and  an  expressive  silence,  which  means, 
H  Now  we  are  ready,  please ;  and  if  you  would 
be  kind  enough  to  begin  it  with  '  Once  upon 
a  time/  we  should  be  much  obliged ;  though 
of  course  we  understand  that  all  the  stories 
in  the  world  can't  commence  that  way,  de- 
lightful as  it  would  be." 

The  Person  with  a  Story  smiles  obligingly 
(at  least  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  she  does),  and 
retires  into  a  little  corner  of  her  brain,  to 
rummage  there  for  something  just  fitted  to  the 
occasion.  That  same  little  corner  is  densely 
populated,  if  she  is  a  lover  of  children.  In 
it  are  all  sorts  of  heroic  dogs,  wonderful 
monkeys,  intelligent  cats,  naughty  kittens ; 
virtues  masquerading  seductively  as  fairies, 
and  vices  hiding  in  imps  ;  birds  agreeing  and 
disagreeing  in  their  little  nests,  and  inevi- 
table small  boys  in  the  act  of  robbing  them ; 
busy  bees  laying  up  their  winter  stores,  and 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

idle  butterflies  disgracefully  neglecting  to  do 
the  same ;  and  then  a  troop  of  lost  children, 
disobedient  children,  and  lazy,  industrious, 
generous,  or  heedless  ones,  waiting  to  fur- 
nish the  thrilling  climaxes.  The  Story-Teller 
selects  a  hero  or  heroine  out  of  this  motley 
crowd,  —  all  longing  to  be  introduced  to 
Bright-Eye,  Fine-Ear,  Kind-Heart,  and  Sweet- 
Lips,  —  and  speedily  the  drama  opens. 

Did  Rachel  ever  have  such  an  audience? 
I  trow  not.  Rachel  never  had  tiny  hands  snug- 
gling into  hers  in  "  the  very  best  part  of  the 
story,"  nor  was  she  near  enough  her  hearers 
to  mark  the  thousand  shades  of  expression 
that  chased  each  other  across  their  faces,  — 
supposing  they  had  any  expression,  which  is 
doubtful.  Rachel  never  saw  dimples  lurking 
in  the  ambush  of  rosy  cheeks,  and  popping 
in  and  out  in  such  a  distracting  manner  that 
she  felt  like  punctuating  her  discourse  with 
kisses !  Her  dull,  conventional,  grown-up 
hearers  bent  a  little  forward  in  their  seats, 
perhaps,  and  compelled  by  her  magic  power 
laughed  and  cried  in  the  right  places ;  but 
their  eyes  never  shone  with  that  starry  lustre 
that  we  see  in  the  eyes  of  happy  children,  — 


INTRODUCTION. 


a  lustre  that  is  dimmed,  alas,  in  after  years. 
Their  eyes  still  see  visions,  but  the  "  shadows 
of  the  prison  house  "  have  fallen  about  us, 
and  the  things  which  we  have  seen  we  "  now 


can  see  no  more  ! 


If  you  chance  to  be  the  Person  with  a 
Story,  you  sit  like  a  queen  on  her  throne  sur- 
rounded by  her  loyal  subjects  ;  or  like  an  un- 
worthy sun  with  a  group  of  flowers  turning 
their  faces  towards  you.  Inspired  by  breath- 
less attention,  you  try  ardently  to  do  your 
very  best.  It  seems  to  you  that  you  could 
never  endure  a  total  failure,  and  you  hardly 
see  how  you  could  bear,  with  any  sort  of 
equanimity,  even  the  vacant  gaze  or  restless 
movement  that  would  bespeak  a  vagrant  in- 
terest. If  you  are  a  novice,  perhaps  the 
frightful  idea  crosses  your  mind,  "What  if 
one  of  these  children  should  slip  out  of  the 
room  ?  "  Or,  still  more  tragic  possibility,  sup- 
pose they  should  look  you  in  the  eye  and 
remark  with  the  terrible  candor  of  infancy, 
"  We  do  not  like  this  story  !  "  But  no  ;  you 
are  more  fortunate.  The  tale  is  told,  and  you 
are  greeted  with  sighs  of  satisfaction  and 
with    the    instantaneous    request,    "  Tell    it 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

*gain  !  "  That  is  the  encore  of  the  Story- 
Teller,  —  "  Tell  it  again  !  No,  not  another 
story ;  the  same  one  over  again,  please  !  "  for 
"  what  novelty  is  worth  that  sweet  monotony 
where  everything  is  known,  and  loved  be- 
cause it  is  known  ? "  No  royal  accolade 
could  be  received  with  greater  gratitude. 
You  endeavor  to  let  humility  wait  upon  self- 
respect  ;  but  when  you  discover  that  the  chil- 
dren can  scarcely  be  dragged  from  your  fasci- 
nating presence,  crying  like  Romeo  for  death 
rather  than  banishment,  and  that  the  next 
time  you  appear  they  make  a  wild  dash  from 
the  upper  regions,  and  precipitate  themselves 
upon  you  with  the  full  impact  of  their  sev- 
eral weights  "  multiplied  into  their  velocity," 
you  cannot  help  hugging  yourself  to  think 
the  good  God  has  endowed  you  sufficiently  to 
win  the  love  and  admiration  of  such  keen 
observers  and  merciless  little  critics. 

Now  this  charming  little  drama  takes  place 
in  somebody's  nursery  corner  at  twilight,  when 
you  are  waiting  for  "  that  cheerful  tocsin  of 
the  soul,  the  dinner-bell,"  or  around  some- 
body's fireside  just  before  the  children's  bed- 
time ;   but  the  same  scene  is  enacted  every 


10  INTRODUCTION. 

few  days  in  the  presence  of  the  fresh-hearted, 
childlike  kindergartner,  of  all  women  the 
likeliest  to  find  the  secret  of  eternal  youth. 
She  chooses  the  story  as  one  of  the  vessels  in 
which  she  shall  carry  the  truth  to  her  circle  of 
little  listeners,  and  you  will  never  hear  her  say, 
like  the  needy  knife-grinder,  "  Story  ?  God 
bless  you,  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir  !  " 

If  the  group  chances  to  be  one  of  bright, 
well-born,  well-bred  youngsters,  the  opportu- 
nity to  inspire  and  instruct  is  one  of  the  most 
effective  and  valuable  that  can  come  to  any 
teacher.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  circle 
happens  to  be  one  of  little  ragamuffins,  Arabs, 
scrips  and  scraps  of  vagrant  humanity  (some- 
times scalawags  and  sometimes  angels),  born 
in  basements  and  bred  on  curbstones,  then 
believe  me,  my  countrymen,  there  is  a  sight 
worth  seeing,  a  scene  fit  for  a  painter.  It 
might  be  a  pleasant  satire  upon  our  national 
hospitality  if  the  artist  were  to  call  such  a  pic- 
ture "  Young  America,"  for  comparatively  few 
distinctively  American  faces  would  be  found 
in  his  group  of  portraits. 

Make  a  mental  picture,  dear  reader,  of  the 
ring  of  listening  children  in  a  San  Francisco 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

free  kindergarten,  for  it  would  be  difficult  to 
gather  so  cosmopolitan  a  company  anywhere 
else :  curly  yellow  hair  and  rosy  cheeks  .  .  . 
sleek  blonde  braids  and  calm  blue  eyes  .  .  . 
swarthy  faces  and  blue-black  curls  .  .  .  woolly 
little  pows  and  thick  lips  .  .  .  long,  arched 
noses  and  broad,  flat  ones.  There  you  will 
see  the  fire  and  passion  of  the  Southern  races 
and  the  self-poise,  serenity,  and  sturdiness  of 
Northern  nations.  Pat  is  there,  with  a  gleam 
of  humor  in  his  eye  .  .  .  Topsy,  all  smiles 
and  teeth  .  .  .  Abraham,  trading  tops  with 
little  Isaac,  next  in  line  .  .  .  Hans  and  Gret- 
cheii,  phlegmatic  and  dependable  .  .  .  Fran- 
gois,  never  still  for  an  instant  .  .  .  Christina, 
rosy,  calm,  and  conscientious,  and  Duncan, 
canny  and  prudent  as  any  of  his  clan. 

What  an  opportunity  for  amalgamation  of 
races  and  for  laying  the  foundation  of  Amer- 
ican citizenship !  for  the  purely  social  atmos- 
phere of  the  kindergarten  makes  it  a  school 
of  life  and  experience.  Imagine  such  a  group 
hanging  breathless  upon  your  words,  as  you 
recount  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  or  try  to 
paint  the  character  of  George  Washington  in 
colors  that  shall  appeal  to  children  whose  an- 


12  INTRODUCTION. 

eestors  have  known  Napoleon,  Cromwell,  and 
Bismarck,  Peter  the  Great,  Garibaldi,  Bruce, 
and  Robert  Emmett. 

To  such  an  audience  were  the  stories  in 
this  little  book  told ;  and  the  lines  that  will 
perhaps  seem  commonplace  to  you  glow  for 
us  with  a  "  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land  ; "  for  "  the  secret  of  our  emotions  never 
lies  in  the  bare  object,  but  in  its  subtle  rela- 
tions to  our  own  past." 

As  we  turn  the  pages,  radiant  faces  peep 
between  the  words ;  the  echo  of  childish 
laughter  rings  in  our  ears  and  curves  our  lips 
with  its  happy  memory ;  there  is  n't  a  single 
round  0  in  all  the  chapters  but  serves  as  a 
tiny  picture-frame  for  an  eager  child's  face ! 
The  commas  say,  w  Is  n't  there  any  more  ?  " 
the  interrogation  points  ask,  "  What  did  the 
boy  do  then  ?  "  the  exclamation  points  cry  in 
ecstasy,  "  What  a  beautiful  story !  "  and  the 
periods  sigh,  "  This  is  all  for  to-day." 

At  this  point  —  where  the  dog  Moufflou  re- 
turns to  his  little  master  —  we  remember  that 
Carlotty  Griggs  clapped  her  ebony  hands,  and 
shrieked  in  transport,  "  I  knowed  he  Jd 
come  1     /  hiowed  he  'd  come  !  " 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

Here  is  the  place  where  we  remarked  im- 
pressively, u  A  lie,  children,  is  the  very  worst 
thing  in  the  world  ! "  whereupon  Billy  inter- 
rogated, with  wide  eyes  and  awed  voice,  "  Is 
it  worse  than  a  railroad  crossing  ?  "  And 
there  is  a  sentence  in  the  story  of  the  "  Bird's 
Nest "  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Tommy's 
tear  !  —  Tommy  of  the  callous  conscience  and 
the  marble  heart.  Tommy's  dull  eye  washed 
for  one  brief  moment  by  the  salutary  tear  ! 
Truly  the  humble  Story-Teller  has  not  lived 
in  vain.  Sing,  ye  morning  stars,  together, 
for  this  is  the  spot  where  Tommy  cried ! 

If  you  would  be  the  Person  with  a  Story, 
you  must  not  only  have  one  to  tell,  but  you 
must  be  willing  to  learn  how  to  tell  it,  if  you 
wish  to  make  it  a  "  rememberable  thing  "  to 
children.  The  Story-Teller,  unlike  the  poet, 
is  made  as  well  as  born,  but  he  is  not  made  of 
all  stuffs  nor  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  In 
this  respect  he  is  very  like  the  Ichneumon  va 
4he  nonsense  rhyme  :  — 

*  There  once  was  an  idle  Ichneumon 
Who  thought  he  could  learn  to  play  Schumann  $ 
But  he  found,  to  his  pains, 
It  took  talent  and  brains, 
And  neither  possessed  this  Ichneumon. * 


14  INTRODUCTION. 


TQTVi 


To  be  effective,  the  story  in  the  kindergar- 
ten should  always  be  told,  never  read  ;  for  lit- 
tle children  need  the  magnetism  of  eye  and 
smile  as  well  as  the  gesture  which  illuminates 
the  strange  word  and  endows  it  with  meaning. 
The  story  that  is  told  is  always  a  thousand 
times  more  attractive,  real,  and  personal  than 
♦inything  read  from  a  book. 

Well-chosen,  graphically  told  stories  can  be 
made  of  distinct  educative  value  in  the  nur- 
sery or  kindergarten.  They  give  the  child  a 
love  of  reading,  develop  in  him  the  germ,  at 
least,  of  a  taste  for  good  literature,  and  teach 
him  the  art  of  speech.  If  they  are  told  in 
simple,  graceful,  expressive  English,  they  are 
a  direct  and  valuable  object  lesson  in  this  last 
direction. 

The  ear  of  the  child  becomes  used  to  re- 
fined intonations,  and  slovenly  language  will 
grow  more  and  more  disagreeable  to  him. 
The  kindergartner  cannot  be  too  careful  in 
this  matter.  By  the  sweetness  of  her  tone 
and  the  perfection  of  her  enunciation  she  not 
only  makes  herself  a  worthy  model  for  the 
children,  but  she  constantly  reveals  the  pos- 
sibilities of  language  and  its  inner  meaning. 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

€t  The  very  brooding  of  a  voice  on  a  word/7 
says  George  Macdonald, u  seems  to  hatch  some- 
thing of  what  is  in  it." 

Stories  help  a  child  to  form  a  standard  by 
which  he  can  live  and  grow,  for  they  are  his 
first  introduction  into  the  grand  world  of  the 
ideal  in  character. 

"  We  live  by  Admiration,  Hope,  and  Love  ; 
And  even  as  these  are  well  and  wisely  fixed, 
In  dignity  of  being  we  ascend." 

The  child  understands  his  own  life  better, 
when  he  is  enabled  to  compare  it  with  other 
lives ;  he  sees  himself  and  his  own  possibilities 
reflected  in  them  as  in  a  mirror. 

They  also  aid  in  the  growth  of  the  imagi- 
native faculty,  which  is  very  early  developed  in 
the  child,  and  requires  its  natural  food.  "  Im- 
agination/' says  Dr.  Seguin,  "  is  more  than  a 
decorative  attribute  of  leisure ;  it  is  a  power 
in  the  sense  that  from  images  perceived 
and  stored  it  sublimes  ideals."  "  If  I  were 
to  choose  between  two  great  calamities  for 
my  children,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  "  I  would 
rather  have  them  unalphabetic  than  unimagi- 
native." 

There  is  a  great  difference  of  opinion  con- 


16  INTRODUCTION. 

cerning  the  value  of  fairy  stories.  The  Grad- 
grinds  will  not  accept  them  on  any  basis  what- 
ever, but  they  are  invariably  so  fascinating  to 
children  that  it  is  certain  they  must  serve  some 
good  purpose  and  appeal  to  some  inherent 
craving  in  child-nature.  But  here  comes  in 
the  necessity  of  discrimination.  The  true 
meaning  of  the  word  " faerie"  is  spiritual, 
but  many  stories  masquerade  under  that  title 
which  have  no  claim  to  it.  Some  universal 
spiritual  truth  underlies  the  really  fine  old 
fairy  tale ;  but  there  can  be*  no  educative  in- 
fluence in  the  so-called  fairy  stories  which  are 
merely  jumbles  of  impossible  incidents,  and 
which  not  unfrequently  present  dishonesty, 
deceit,  and  cruelty  in  attractive  or  amusing 
guise. 

When  the  fairy  tale  carries  us  into  an  ex- 
quisite ideal  world,  where  the  fancy  may  roam 
at  will,  creating  new  images  and  seeing  truth 
ever  in  new  forms,  then  it  has  a  pure  and 
lovely  influence  over  children,  who  are  natural 
poets,  and  live  more  in  the  spirit  and  less  in 
the  body  than  we.  The  fairy  tale  offers  us 
a  broad  canvas  on  which  to  paint  our  word- 
pictures.     There  are  no  restrictions  of  time 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

or  space ;  the  world  is  ours,  and  we  can  roam 
in  it  at  will ;  for  spirit,  there,  is  ever  victorious 
over  matter. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  saith  the  Story-Teller, 
U  there  was  a  beautiful  locust  tree,  that  bent 
its  delicate  fans  and  waved  its  creamy  blos- 
soms in  the  sunshine,  and  laughed  because  its 
flowers  were  so  lovely  and  fragrant  and  the 
world  was  so  fresh  and  green  in  its  summer 
dress." 

"  It 's  queer  for  a  tree  to  laugh,"  said 
Bright-Eye. 

"  But  queerer  if  it  did  n't  laugh,  with  such 
lovely  blossoms  hanging  all  over  it,"  replied 
Fine-Ear. 

Everything  is  real  to  the  happy  child. 
Life  is  a  sort  of  fairy  garden,  where  he  wan- 
ders as  in  a  dream.  "  He  can  make  abstrac- 
tion of  whatever  does  not  fit  into  his  fable ; 
and  he  puts  his  eyes  into  his  pocket  just  as  we 
hold  our  noses  in  an  unsavory  lane." 

Stories  offer  a  valuable  field  for  instruction, 
and  for  introducing  in  simple  and  attractive 
form  much  information  concerning  the  laws 
of  plant  and  flower  and  animal  life. 

A  story  of   this  kind,   however,  must  be 


18  INTRODUCTION. 

made  as  well  as  told  by  an  artist ;  for  in  the 
hands  of  a  bungler  it  is  quite  as  likely  to  be  a 
failure  as  a  success.  It  must  be  compounded 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  the  scientific  facts 
must  be  generously  diluted  and  mixed  in  small 
proportions  with  other  and  more  attractive  ele- 
ments, or  it  will  be  rejected  by  the  mental 
stomach ;  or,  if  received  in  one  ear,  will  be  un- 
ceremoniously ushered  from  the  other  with  an 
"  Avaunt !  cold  fact !  What  have  thou  and  I 
in  common  f " 

Did  you  ever  tell  a  story  of  this  kind  and 
watch  its  effect  upon  children?  Did  you 
ever  note  that  fatal  moment  when  it  began  to 
begin  to  dawn  upon  the  intelligence  of  the 
dullest  member  of  your  flock  that  your  nar- 
rative was  a  "  whited  sepulchre,"  and  that  he 
was  being  instructed  within  an  inch  of  his 
life? 

"  Treat  me  at  least  with  honesty,  my  good 
woman  !  "  he  cries  in  his  spirit.  "  Read  me 
lessons  if  you  will,  but  do  not  make  a  pre- 
tense of  amusing  me  at  the  same  moment !  " 

This  obvious  attitude  of  criticism  is  very 
disagreeable  to  you,  but  never  mind,  it  will  be 
a  salutary  lesson.     Did  you  think,  0  clumsy 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

visitor  in  childhood  land,  that  simply  because 
you  called  your  stuffed  dolls  "  Prince  "  and 
u  Princess  "  you  could  conduct  them  straight 
through  the  mineral  kingdom,  and  allow  them 
to  converse  with  all  the  metals  with  impunity  ? 
Next  time  make  your  scientific  fact  an  integral 
part  of  the  story,  and  do  not  try  to  introduce 
too  much  knowledge  in  one  dose.  All  children 
love  Nature  and  sympathize  with  her  (or  if 
they  do  not,  "  then  despair  of  them,  0  Phi- 
lanthropy !  "),  and  all  stories  that  bring  them 
nearer  to  the  dear  mother's  heart  bring  them 
at  the  same  time  nearer  to  God  ;  therefore  lead 
them  gently  to  a  loving  observation  of 

"  The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun  ;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green." 

Stories  bring  the  force  of  example  to  bear 
upon  children  in  the  very  best  possible  way. 
Here  we  can  speak  to  the  newly  awakened 
soul  and  touch  it  to  nobler  issues.  This  can 
be  done  with  very  little  of  that  abstract  mor- 
alizing which  is  generally  so  ineffective.  A 
moral  "  lugged  in  "  by  the  heels,  so  to  speak. 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

without  any  sense  of  perspective  on  the  part 
of  the  Story-Teller,  can  no  more  incline  a 
child  to  nobler  living  than  cold  victuals  can 
serve  as  a  fillip  to  the  appetite.  The  facts 
themselves  should  suffice  to  exert  the  moral  in- 
fluence ;  the  deeds  should  speak  louder  than 
the  words,  and  in  clearer,  fuller  tones.  At 
the  end  of  such  a  story,  "  Go  thou  and  do 
likewise  "  sounds  in  the  child's  heart,  and  a 
new  throb  of  tenderness  and  aspiration,  of  de- 
sire to  do,  to  grow,  and  to  be,  stirs  gently 
there  and  wakes  the  soul  to  higher  ideals.  In 
such  a  story  the  canting,  vapid,  or  didactic 
little  moral,  tacked  like  a  tag  on  the  end,  for 
fear  we  shall  not  read  the  lesson  aright,  is 
nothing  short  of  an  insult  to  the  better  feel- 
ings. It  used  to  be  very  much  in  vogue,  but 
we  have  learned  better  nowadays,  and  we  rec- 
ognize (to  paraphrase  Mrs.  Whitney's  bright 
speech)  that  we  have  often  vaccinated  children 
with  morality  for  fear  of  their  taking  it  the 
natural  way. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  children  sympa- 
thize with  the  imaginary  woes  of  birds  and 
butterflies  and  plants  much  more  readily  than 
with  the  sufferings  of   human  beings ;    and 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

ihey  are  melted  to  tears  much  more  quickly 
by  simple  incidents  from  the  manifold  life  of 
nature,  than  by  the  tragedies  of  human  ex- 
perience which  surround  them  on  every  side. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  says  in  his  essay  on 
u  Child's  Play/'  "  Once,  when  I  was  groaning 
aloud  with  physical  jjain,  a  young  gentleman 
came  into  the  room  and  nonchalantly  inquired 
if  I  had  seen  his  bow  and  arrow.  He  made 
no  account  of  my  groans,  which  he  accepted, 
as  he  had  to  accept  so  much  else,  as  a  piece  of 
the  inexplicable  conduct  of  his  elders.  Those 
elders,  who  care  so  little  for  rational  enjoy- 
ment, and  are  even  the  enemies  of  rational  en- 
joyment for  others,  he  had  accepted  without 
understanding  and  without  complaint,  as  the 
rest  of  us  accept  the  scheme  of  the  universe." 
Miss  Anna  Buckland  quotes  in  this  connection 
a  story  of  a  little  boy  to  whom  his  mother 
showed  a  picture  of  Daniel  in  the  lions'  den. 
The  child  sighed  and  looked  much  distressed, 
whereupon  his  mother  hastened  to  assure  him 
that  Daniel  was  such  a  good  man  that  God 
did  not  let  the  lions  hurt  him.  "Oh,"  re- 
plied the  little  fellow,  "  I  was  not  thinking  of 
that;  but  I  was  afraid  that  those  big  lions 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

were  going  to  eat  all  of  him  themselves,  ancl 
that  they  would  not  give  the  poor  little  lion 
down  in  the  corner  any  of  him !  " 

It  is  well  to  remember  the  details  with  which 
you  surrounded  your  story  when  first  you  told 
it,  and  hold  to  them  strictly  on  all  other  oc- 
casions. The  children  allow  you  no  latitude 
in  this  matter ;  they  draw  the  line  absolutely 
upon  all  change.  Woe  unto  you,  scribes  and 
Pharisees,  if  you  speak  of  Jimmy  when  "  his 
name  was  Johnny ; "  or  if,  when  you  are  de- 
picting the  fearful  results  of  disobedience,  you 
lose  Jane  in  a  cranberry  bog  instead  of  the 
heart  of  a  forest !  Personally  you  do  not  care 
much  for  little  Jane,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  no 
moment  to  you  where  you  lost  her;  but  an 
error  such  as  this  undermines  the  very  foun- 
dations of  the  universe  in  the  children's  minds. 
"  Can  Jane  be  lost  in  two  places  ?  "  they  ex- 
claim mentally,  "  or  are  there  two  Janes,  and 
are  they  both  lost  ?  because  if  so,  it  must  be  a 
fatality  to  be  named  Jane." 

Perez  relates  the  following  incident :  "  A 
certain  child  was  fond  of  a  story  about  a 
young  bird,  which,  having  left  its  nest,  al- 
though its  mother  had  forbidden  it  to  do  so, 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

flew  to  the  top  of  a  chimney,  fell  down  the 
flue  into  the  fire,  and  died  a  victim  to  his  dis- 
obedience. The  person  who  told  the  story 
thought  it  necessary  to  embellish  it  from  his 
own  imagination.  '  That 's  not  right/  said 
the  child  at  the  first  change  which  was  made, 
*the  mother  said  this  and  did  that.'  His 
cousin,  not  remembering  the  story  word  for 
word,  was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  inven- 
tion to  fill  up  gaps.  But  the  child  could  not 
stand  it.  He  slid  down  from  his  cousin's 
knees,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  indig- 
nant gestures,  exclaimed,  '  It  's  not  true  ! 
The  little  bird  said,  coui,  coui,  coui,  coui,  be- 
fore he  fell  into  the  fire,  to  make  his  mother 
hear ;  but  the  mother  did  not  hear  him,  and 
he  burnt  his  wings,  his  claws,  and  his  beak, 
and  he  died,  poor  little  bird.'  And  the  child 
ran  away,  crying  as  if  he  had  been  beaten. 
He  had  been  worse  than  beaten ;  he  had  been 
deceived,  or  at  least  he  thought  so ;  his  story 
had  been  spoiled  by  being  altered."  So  seri- 
ously do  children  for  a  long  time  take  fiction 
for  reality. 

If  you  find  the  attention  of  the  children 
wandering,  you  can  frequently  win  it  gently 


S4  INTRODUCTION. 

back  by  showing  some  object  illustrative  of 
your  story,  by  drawing  a  hasty  sketch  on  a 
blackboard,  or  by  questions  to  the  children. 
You  sometimes  receive  more  answers  than  you 
bargained  for;  sometimes  these  answers  will 
be  confounded  with  the  real  facts  ;  and  some- 
times they  will  fall  very  wide  of  the  mark. 

I  was  once  telling  the  exciting  tale  of  the 
Shepherd's  Child  lost  in  the  mountains,  and 
of  the  sagacious  dog  who  finally  found  him. 
When  I  reached  the  thrilling  episode  of  the 
search,  I  followed  the  dog  as  he  started  from 
the  shepherd's  hut  with  the  bit  of  breakfast 
for  his  little  master.  The  shepherd  sees  the 
faithful  creature,  and  seized  by  a  sudden  in- 
spiration follows  in  his  path.  Up,  up  the 
mountain  sides  they  climb,  the  father  full  of 
hope,  the  mother  trembling  with  fear.  The 
dog  rushes  ahead,  quite  out  of  sight ;  the 
anxious  villagers  press  forward  in  hot  pursuit. 
The  situation  grows  more  and  more  intense  j 
they  round  a  little  point  of  rocks,  and  there, 
under  the  shadow  of  a  great  gray  crag,  they 
find  — 

"  What  do  you  suppose  they  found  ?  " 

"  F'C  cents  !  !  "  shouted  Benny  in  a  trans* 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

yort  of  excitement.     "  Bet  yer  they  found  fi 
cents  !■!  " 

You  would  imagine  that  such  a  prepos- 
terous idea  could  not  find  favor  in  any  sane 
community ;  but  so  altogether  seductive  a 
guess  did  this  appear  to  be,  that  a  chorus  of 
"  Fi'  cents  !  "  "  Fi'  cents  !  "  sounded  on  every 
«ide ;  and  when  the  tumult  was  hushed,  the 
discovery  of  an  ordinary  flesh  and  blood  child 
fell  like  an  anti-climax  on  a  public  thoroughly 
in  love  with  its  own  incongruities.  Let  the 
psychologist  explain  Benny's  mental  pro- 
cesses ;  we  prefer  to  leave  them  undisturbed 
and  unclassified. 

.  •  •  •  •  • 

If  you  have  no  children  of  your  own,  dear 
Person  with  a  Story,  go  into  the  highways  and 
by-ways  and  gather  together  the  little  ones 
whose  mothers'  lips  are  dumb ;  sealed  by  dull 
poverty,  hard  work,  and  constant  life  in  at- 
mospheres where  graceful  fancies  are  blighted 
as  soon  as  they  are  born.  There  is  no  fireside, 
and  no  chimney  corner  in  those  crowded  tene- 
ments. There  is  no  silver-haired  grandsire 
full  of  years  and  wisdom,  with  memory  that 
runs  back  to  the  good  old  times  that  are  no 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

more.  There  is  no  cheerful  grandame  with 
pocket  full  of  goodies  and  a  store  of  dear  old 
reminiscences  all  beginning  with  that  enchant- 
ing phrase,  "  When  I  was  a  little  girl." 

Brighten  these  sordid  lives  a  little  with 
your  pretty  thoughts,  your  lovely  imagina- 
tions, your  tender  pictures.  Speak  to  them 
simply,  for  their  minds  grope  feebly  in  the 
dim  twilight  of  their  restricted  lives.  The  old, 
old  stories  will  do ;  stories  of  love  and  hero- 
ism and  sacrifice  ;  of  faith  and  courage  and 
fidelity.  Kindle  in  tired  hearts  a  gentler 
thought  of  life ;  open  the  eyes  that  see  not 
and  the  ears  that  hear  not ;  interpret  to  them 
something  of  the  beauty  that  has  been  re- 
vealed to  you.  You  do  not  need  talent,  only 
sympathy,  "  the  one  poor  word  that  includes 
all  our  best  insight  and  our  best  love." 

KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN. 


PEEFACE. 


The  fourteen  little  stories  in  this  book  are 
not  offered  as  a  collection  ample  enough  to 
satisfy  all  needs  of  the  kindergartner. 

Such  a  collection  should  embrace  represent- 
ative stories  of  all  classes  —  narrative,  realis- 
tic, imaginative,  scientific,  and  historical,  as 
well  as  brief  and  simple  tales  for  the  babies. 

An  experience  of  twelve  years  among  kin- 
dergartners,  however,  has  shown  us  that  there 
is  room  for  a  number  of  books  like  this  mod- 
est example;  containing  stories  which  need 
no  adaptation  or  arrangement ;  which  are 
ready  for  the  occasion,  and  which  have  been 
thoroughly  tried  before  audience  after  audi- 
ence of  children. 

The  three  adaptations,  "Benjy  in  Beast- 
Land,"    "Moufflou,"     and    the    "Porcelain 


28  PREFACE. 

Stove/'  have  been  made  as  sympathetically  as 
possible.  Their  introduction  needs  no  apol- 
ogy, for  they  are  exquisite  stories,  and  in  their 
original  form  mucn  too  advanced  for  children 
of  the  kindergarten  age. 

KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGINo 
NORA  A.  SMITH. 


THE  ORIOLE'S  NEST. 


"See  how  each  boy,  excited  by  the  actual  event,  is  all 
3ar."  —  Froebel. 

There  it  hangs,  on  a  corner  of  the  picture 
f rame,  very  much  as  it  hung  in  the  old  willow- 
tree  out  in  the  garden. 

It  was  spring  time,  and  I  used  to  move  my 
rocking-chair  up  to  the  window,  where  I  could 
lean  out  and  touch  the  green  branches,  and 
watch  there  for  the  wonderful  beautiful  things 
to  tell  my  little  children  in  the  kindergarten. 
There  I  saw  the  busy  little  ants  hard  at 
work  on  the  ground  below ;  the  patient,  dull, 
brown  toads  snapping  flies  in  the  sunshine; 
the  striped  caterpillars  lazily  crawling  up  the 
trunk  of  the  tree ;  and  dozens  of  merry  birds 
getting  ready  for  housekeeping. 

Did  you  know  the  birdies  "  kept  house  "  ? 
Oh,  yes ;  they  never  "  board "  like  men  and 
women ;  indeed,  I  don't  think  they  even  like 


80  THE   ORIOLE'S  NEST. 

to  rent  a  house  without  fixing  it  over  to  suit 
themselves,  but  they  'd  much  rather  go  to 
work  and  build  one, 

"  So  snug  and  so  warm,  so  cosy  and  neat,  i 

To  start  at  their  housekeeping  all  complete ." 

Now  there  hung  just  inside  my  window  a 
box  of  strings,  and  for  two  or  three  days,  no 
matter  how  many  I  put  into  it,  when  I  went 
to  look  the  next  time  none  could  be  found. 
I  had  talked  to  the  little  girls  and  scolded  the 
little  boys  in  the  house,  but  no  one  knew  any- 
thing about  the  matter,  when  one  afternoon, 
as  I  was  sitting  there,  a  beautiful  bird  with 
a  yellow  breast  fluttered  down  from  the  wil- 
low-tree, perched  on  the  window-sill,  cocked 
his  saucy  head,  winked  his  bright  eye,  and 
without  saying  "  If  you  please,"  dipped  his 
naughty  little  beak  into  the  string  box  and 
flew  off  with  a  piece  of  pink  twine. 

I  sat  as  still  as  a  mouse  to  see  if  the  little 
scamp  would  dare  to  come  back ;  he  did  n't, 
but  he  sent  his  wife,  who  gave  a  hop,  skip, 
and  a  jump,  looked  me  squarely  in  the  eye,  and 
took  her  string  without  being  a  bit  afraid. 

Now  do  you  call  that  stealing  ?  "  No,"  you 
answer.     Neither  do  I ;  to  be  sure  they  took 


THE   ORIOLE'S  NEST.  31 

what  belonged  to  me,  but  the  window  was 
wide  open,  and  I  think  they  must  have  known 
I  loved  the  birds  and  would  like  to  give  them 
something  for  their  new  house.  Perhaps  they 
knew,  too,  that  bits  of  old  twine  could  not  be 
worth  much. 

Then  how  busily  they  began  their  work! 
They  had  already  chosen  the  place  for  their 
nest,  springing  up  and  down  in  the  boughs 
till  they  found  a  branch  far  out  of  sight  of 
snakes  and  hawks  and  cruel  tabby  cats,  high 
out  of  reach  of  naughty  small  boys  with  their 
sling-shots,  and  now  everything  was  ready  for 
these  small  carpenters  to  begin  their  building. 
No  hammer  and  nails  were  needed,  claw  and 
bill  were  all  the  tools  they  used,  and  yet  what 
beautiful  carpenter  work  was  theirs ! 

Do  you  see  how  strongly  the  nest  is  tied  on 
to  those  three  slender  twigs,  and  how  care- 
fully and  closely  it  is  woven,  so  that  you  can 
scarcely  pull  it  apart  ? 

Those  wiry  black  hairs  holding  all  the  rest 
together  were  dropped  from  Prince  Charm- 
ing's  tail  (Prince  Charming  is  the  pretty  sad- 
dle-horse who  crops  his  grass  under  the  wil- 
low-tree).    Those  sleek  brown  hairs  belonged 


32  THE   ORIOLE'S  NEST. 

to  Dame  Margery,  the  gentle  mooly  cow,  who 
lives  with  her  little  calf  Pet  in  the  stable 
with  Prince  Charming ;  and  there  is  a  shining 
yellow  spot  on  one  side.  Ah,  you  roguish 
birds,  you  must  have  been  outside  the  kitchen 
window  when  baby  Johnny's  curls  were  cut ! 
We  could  only  spare  two  from  his  precious 
head,  and  we  hunted  everywhere  for  this  one 
to  send  to  grandmamma ! 

Now  just  look  at  this  door  in  the  side  of 
the  nest,  and  tell  me  how  a  bird  could  make 
such  a  perfect  one ;  and  yet  I  've  heard  you 
say,  "  It 's  only  a  bird ;  he  does  n't  know  any- 
thing." To  be  sure  he  cannot  do  as  many 
things  as  you,  but  after  all  you  are  not  wise 
enough  to  do  many  of  the  things  that  he 
does.  What  would  one  of  my  little  boys  do, 
I  wonder,  if  he  were  carried  miles  away  from 
home  and  dropped  in  a  place  he  had  never 
seen  ?  Why,  he  would  be  too  frightened  to 
do  anything  but  cry ;  and  yet  there  are  many 
birds,  who,  when  taken  away  a  long  distance, 
will  perch  on  top  of  the  weather-vane,  per- 
haps, make  up  their  little  bits  of  minds  which 
way  to  go,  and  then  with  a  whir-r-r-r  fly  off 
over   house-tops    and    church-steeples,    towns 


THE   ORIOLE'S  NEST.  33 

&nd  cities,  rivers  and  meadows,  until  they 
reach  the  place  from  which  they  started. 

Look  at  the  nest  for  the  last  time  now,  and 
see  the  soft,  lovely  lining  of  ducks'  feathers 
and  lambs'  wool. 

Why  do  you  suppose  it  was  made  so  velvet 
soft  and  fleecy?  Why,  for  the  little  birds 
that  were  coming,  of  course ;  and  sure  enough, 
one  morning  after  the  tiny  house  was  all  fin- 
ished, I  leaned  far  out  of  the  window  and  saw 
five  little  eggs  cuddled  close  together ;  but  1 
did  not  get  much  chance  to  look  at  those 
precious  eggs,  I  can  tell  you ;  for  the  mamma 
bird  could  scarcely  spare  a  minute  to  go  and 
get  a  drink  of  water,  so  afraid  was  she  that 
they  would  miss  the  warmth  o£  her  downy 
wings. 

There  she  sat  in  the  long  May  days  and 
warm,  still  nights :  who  but  a  mamma  would 
be  so  sweet  and  kind  and  patient  ?  —  but  she 
did  n't  mind  the  trouble  —  not  a  bit.  Bless 
her  dear  little  bird-heart,  they  were  not  eggs 
to  her :  she  could  see  them  even  now  as  they 
were  going  to  be,  her  five  cunning,  downy, 
feathery  birdlings,  chirping  and  fluttering 
Under  her  wings;   so  she  never  minded  the 


34  THE   ORIOLE'S  NEST. 

ache  in  her  back  or  the  cramp  in  her  legs,  but 
sat  quite  still  at  home,  though  there  were 
splendid  picnics  in  the  strawberry  patches  and 
concerts  on  the  fence  rails,  and  all  the  father 
birds,  and  all  the  mother  birds  that  were  not 
hatching  eggs,  were  having  a  great  deal  of 
fun  this  beautiful  weather.  At  last  all  was 
over,  and  I  was  waked  up  one  morning  by 
such  a  chirping  and  singing  —  such  a  flutter- 
ing and  flying  —  I  knew  in  a  minute  that 
where  the  night  before  there  had  been  two 
birds  and  five  eggs,  now  there  were  seven 
birds  and  nothing  but  egg-shells  in  the  green 
willow-tree ! 

The  papa  oriole  would  hardly  wait  for  me 
to  dress,  but  flew  on  and  off  the  window- 
sill,  seeming  to  say,  "  Why  don't  you  get  up  ? 
why  don't  you  get  up?  I  have  five  little 
birds;  they  came  out  of  the  shells  this  very- 
morning,  so  hungry  that  I  can't  get  enough 
for  them  to  eat !  Why  don't  you  get  up,  I 
say  ?  I  have  five  little  birds,  and  I  am  taking 
care  of  them  while  my  wife  is  off  taking  a 
rest!" 

They  were  five  scrawny,  skinny  little  things, 
I  must  say  j  for  you  know  birds  don't  begin 


THE   ORIOLE'S  NEST.  35 

by  being  pretty  like  kittens  and  chickens,  but 
look  very  bare  and  naked,  and  don't  seem  to 
have  anything  to  show  but  a  big,  big  mouth 
which  is  always  opening  and  crying   "  Yip<> 

yip.  yip ! " 

Now  I  think  you  are  wondering  why  I  hap- 
pen  to  have  this  nest,  and  how  I  could  have 
taken  away  the  beautiful  house  from  the  birds. 
Ah,  that  is  the  sad  part  of  the  story,  and  I 
wish  I  need  not  tell  it  to  you. 

When  the  baby  birds  were  two  days  old,  I 
went  out  on  a  long  ride  into  the  country, 
leaving  everything  safe  and  happy  in  the  old 
green  willow-tree ;  but  when  I  came  back,  what 
do  you  think  I  found  on  the  ground  under 
the  branches  ? A  wonderful  hang- 
bird's  nest  cut  from  the  tree,  and  five  poor 
still  birdies  lying  by  its  side.  Five  slender 
necks  all  limp  and  lifeless,  —  five  pairs  of 
bright  eyes  shut  forever !  and  overhead  the 
poor  mamma  and  papa  twittering  and  crying 
in  the  way  little  birds  have  when  they  are 
frightened  and  sorry  —  flying  here  and  there, 
first  down  to  the  ground  and  then  up  in  the 
tree,  to  see  if  it  was  really  true. 

While  I  was  gone  two  naughty  boys  had 


36  THE  ORIOLE'S  NEST. 

come  into  the  garden  to  dig  for  angle-worms, 
and  all  at  once  they  spied  the  oriole's  nest. 

"  0  Tommy,  here 's  a  hang-bird's  nest,  such 
a  funny  one  !  there  's  nobody  here,  let 's  get 
it,"  cried  Jack.  , 

Up  against  the  tree  they  put  the  step-ladder^ 
and  although  it  was  almost  out  of  reach,  a 
sharp  jack-knife  cut  the  twigs  that  held  it  up, 
and  down  it  fell  from  the  high  tree  with  a 
heavy  thud  on  the  hard  earth,  and  the  five 
little  orioles  never  breathed  again  !  Of  course 
the  boys  did  n't  know  there  were  any  birdies 
in  the  nest,  or  they  would  n't  have  done  it  for 
the  world ;  but  that  did  n't  make  it  any  easier 
for  the  papa  and  mamma  bird. 

Now,  dear  children,  never  let  me  hear  you 
say,  "  It 's  no  matter,  they  're  only  birds,  they 
don't  care." 

Think  about  this  nest :  how  the  mother  and 
father  worked  at  it,  weaving  hair  and  string 
and  wool  together,  day  by  day !  Think  how 
the  patient  mamma  sat  on  the  eggs,  dreaming 
of  the  time  when  she  should  have  five  little 
singing,  flying  birds  to  care  for,  to  feed  and 
to  teach !  and  then  to  have  them  live  only 
two  short  days  !     Was  it  not  dreadful  to  lose 


THE   ORIOLE'S  NEST.  37 

her  beautiful  house  and  dear  little  children 
both  at  once  ? 

Never  forget  that  just  as  your  own  father 
and  mother  love  their  dear  little  girls  and 
boys,  so  God  has  made  the  birds  love  their 
little  feathery  children  that  are  born  in  the 
wonderful  nests  he  teaches  them  to  build. 


DICKY  SMILE Y'S  BIRTHDAY. 


"  In  order  to  be  especially  beneficial  and  effective,  story* 
telling  should  be  connected  with  the  events  and  occurrences 
of  life."  —  Froebel. 

Dicky  Smiley  was  eight  years  old  when 
all  these  things  happened  that  I  am  going  to 
tell  you ;  eight  years  old,  and  as  bright  as  a 
steel  button.  It  was  very  funny  that  his  name 
should  be  Smiley,  for  his  face  was  just  like  a 
sunbeam,  and  if  he  ever  cried  at  all  it  was 
only  for  a  minute,  and  then  the  smiles  would 
creep  out  and  chase  the  tear-drops  away  from 
the  blue  sky  of  his  eyes. 

Dicky's  mother  tried  to  call  him  Richard, 
because  it  was  his  papa's  name,  but  it  nevei 
would  say  itself  somehow,  and  even  when  she 
did  remember,  and  called  him  u  Richard,"  hie 
baby  sister  Dot  would  cry,  "Mamma,  don't 
scold  Dicky." 

He    had   once    a   good,   loving   papa   like 


DICKY  SMILEY' S  BIRTHDAY.  39 

yocrs,  when  he  was  a  tiny  baby  in  long  white 
clothes ;  but  the  dear  papa  marched  away 
with  the  blue-coated  soldiers  one  day,  and 
never  came  back  any  more  to  his  little  chil- 
dren ;  for  he  died  far,  far  away  from  home, 
on  a  green  battlefield,  with  many  other  sol- 
diers. You  can  think  how  sad  and  lonely 
Dicky's  mamma  was,  and  how  she  hugged 
her  three  babies  close  in  her  arms,  and 
said  :  — 

"  Darlings,  you  have  n't  any  father  now, 
but  the  dear  God  will  help  your  mother  to 
take  care  of  you  !  " 

And  now  she  was  working  hard,  so  very 
hard,  from  morning  till  night  every  day  to 
get  money  to  buy  bread  and  milk  and  clothes 
for  Bess  and  Dot  and  Dicky. 

But  Dicky  was  a  good  little  fellow  and 
helped  his  mamma  ever  so  much,  pulling  out 
bastings  from  her  needlework,  bringing  in 
the  kindling  and  shavings  from  the  shed,  and 
going  to  the  store  for  her  butter  and  pota- 
toes and  eggs.     So  one  morning  she  said :  — 

"  Dicky,  you  have  been  such  a  help  to  me 
this  summer,  I  'd  like  to  give  you  something 
to  make  you  very  happy.     Let  us  count  the 


40  DICKY  SMILEY 'S  BIRTHDAY. 

money  in  your  bank  —  you  earned  it  all  your- 
self —  and  see  what  we  could  buy  with  it. 
To  be  sure,  Bess  wants  a  waterproof  and  Dot 
needs  rubbers,  but  we  do  want  our  little  boy 
to  have  a  birthday  present." 

"  Oh,  mamma/'  cried  he,  clapping  his 
hands,  "  what  a  happy  day  it  will  be  !  1 
shall  buy  that  tool-box  at  the  store  round  the 
corner  !  It 's  such  a  beauty,  with  a  little  saw, 
a  claw-hammer,  a  chisel,  a  screw- driver,  and 
everything  a  carpenter  needs.  It  costs  just  a 
dollar,  exactly ! " 

Then  they  unscrewed  the  bank  and  found 
ninety-five  cents,  so  that  it  would  take  only 
five  cents  more  to  make  the  dollar.  Dicky 
earned  that  before  he  went  to  bed,  by  piling 
up  wood  for  a  neighbor;  and  his  mamma 
changed  all  the  little  five  and  ten  cent  pieces 
into  two  bright  half-dollars  that  chinked  to- 
gether joyfully  in  his  trousers  pocket. 

The  next  morning  he  was  up  almost  at  the 
same  time  the  robins  and  chimney-swallows 
flew  out  of  their  nests ;  jumped  down  the 
stairs,  two  at  a  time,  and  could  scarcely  eat 
his  breakfast,  such  a  hurry  as  he  was  in  to  buy 
the  precious  tool-box.     He  opened  the  front 


DICKY  SMILEY' S  BIRTHDAY.  41 

door,  danced  down  the  wooden  steps,  and 
there  on  the  curb  in  front  of  the  house  stood 
a  little  girl,  with  a  torn  gingham  apron,  no 
shoes,  no  hat,  and  her  nut-brown  curls  flying 
in  the  wind ;  worse  than  all,  she  was  crying 
as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"Why,  little  girl,  what's  the  matter ?" 
asked  Dicky,  for  he  was  a  kind-hearted  boy, 
and  did  n't  like  to  see  people  cry. 

She  took  down  her  apron  and  sobbed :  — 

"  Oh,  I  've  lost  my  darling  little  brown  dog, 
and  I  can  never  get  him  back !  " 

"  Why,  has  somebody  poisoned  him  —  is  he 
dead  ?  "  said  Dicky. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  oh  no  !  The  pound-man  took  him 
away  in  his  cart  —  my  sweet  little  bit  of  a 
dog ;  he  has  such  a  cunning  little  curly  tail, 
and  long,  silky  ears;  he  does  all  kinds  of 
tricks,  and  they  '11  never  let  me  in  at  home 
without  Bruno." 

And  then  she  began  to  cry  harder  than 
ever,  so  that  Dicky  hardly  knew  what  to  say 
to  her. 

Now  the  pound,  children,  is  a  very  large 
place  somewhere  near  the  city,  with  a  high 


42  DICKY  SMILEY'S  BIRTHDAY. 

fence  all  around  it,  and  inside  are  kept  colts 
and  horses,  the  little  calves  and  mother  cows, 
and  the  sheep  and  goats  that  run  away  from 
home,  or  are  picked  up  by  the  roadside0 
The  pound-man  rides  along  the  street  in  a 
big  cart,  which  has  a  framework  of  slats 
built  over  it,  so  that  it  looks  something  like  a 
chicken-coop  on  wheels,  and  in  it  —  some  of 
you  have  seen  him  do  it  —  he  puts  the  poor 
dogs  that  have  n't  collars  on,  and  whose  mas- 
ters have  n't  paid  for  them.  Then  he  rides 
away  and  locks  them  up  in  the  great  place 
inside  the  high  fence,  and  they  have  to  stay 
awhile.  The  dogs  are  killed  if  nobody  comes 
for  them. 

"  Well,"  said  Dicky,  "  let  us  go  and  see  the 
pound-man.     Do  you  know  where  he  lives  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  answered  the  little  girl, 
whose  name  was  Lola.  "I  ran  behind  the 
cart  all  the  way  to  the  pound.  I  cried  after 
Bruno,  and  Bruno  whined  for  me,  and  poked 
his  nose  between  the  bars  and  tried  to  jump 
out,  but  he  could  n't.  It 's  a  pretty  long  way 
there,  and  the  man  is  as  cross  as  two  sticks." 

But  they  started  off,  and  on  and  on  they 
walked  together,  Dicky  having  tight  hold  of 


DICKY   SMILEY' S  BIRTHDAY.  43 

Lola's  hand,  while  she  told  him  about  the 
wonderful  things  Bruno  could  do;  how  he 
could  go  up  and  down  a  ladder,  play  the  fife 
and  beat  the  drum,  make  believe  go  to  sleep, 
and  dance  a  jig.  It  was  by  these  tricks  of 
his  that  Lola  earned  money  for  her  uncle, 
with  whom  she  lived ;  for  her  father  and 
mother  were  both  dead,  and  there  was  no  one 
in  the  whole  world  who  loved  the  little  girl. 
The  dear  mother  had  died  in  a  beautiful 
mountain  country  far  across  the  ocean,  and 
Lola  and  Bruno  had  been  sent  in  a  ship  over 
to  America.  Now  this  dear,  pretty  mamma 
of  Lola's  used  to  sing  to  her  when  she  rocked 
her  to  sleep,  and  as  she  grew  from  a  baby  to 
a  tiny  girl  she  learned  the  little  songs  to  sing 
to  Bruno  when  he  was  a  little  puppy.  Would 
you  like  to  hear  one  of  them  ?  She  used  to 
sing  it  on  the  street  corners,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  last  verse  that  knowing,  cunning,  darling 
Bruno  would  yawn  as  if  he  could  not  keep 
awake  another  minute,  tuck  his  silky  head 
between  his  two  fore  paws,  shut  his  bright 
eyes,  give  a  tired  little  sigh,  and  stay  fast 
asleep   until  Lola  waked  him.      This  is  the 


44  DICKY  SMILEY'S  BIRTHDAY. 


b»  f    f  •  r*^ 


t*t 


Wake    lit  -  tie   Bru  -  no  !  Wake,  lit  -  tie    Bru  -  no, 


^ 


=1= 


-*-*- 


-&- 


Wake,    lit  -  tie        Bru  -  no        quick    -    ly ! 

When  the  two  children  came  to  the  pound 
and  saw  the  little  house  at  the  gate  where  the 
pound-man  lived,  Dicky  was  rather  frightened 
and  hardly  dared  walk  up  the  steps ;  but 
after  a  moment  he  thought  to  himself,"  I 
won't  be  a  coward ;  I  have  n't  done  anything 
wrong."  So  he  gave  the  door  a  rousing 
knock,  for  an  eight-year-old  boy,  and  brought 
the  man  out  at  once 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  he,  in  a  gruff 
voice,  for  he  did  seem  rather  cross. 

"  Please,  sir,  I  want  Lola's  little  brown 
dog.  He 's  all  the  dog  she  has,  and  she  earns 
money  with  him.  He  does  funny  tricks  for 
ten  cents." 

u  How  do  you  think  I  know  whether  I  Ve 
got  a  brown  dog  in  there  or  not  ?  "  growled 
he.  "  You'd  better  run  home  to  your  mo- 
thers, both  of  you." 


DICKY  SMILE Y'S  BIRTHDAY.  45 

At  this  Lola  began  to  cry  again,  and  Dicky 
said  quickly :  — 

"  Oh,  you  'd  know  him  soon  as  anything,  — 
he  has  such  a  cunning  curly  tail  and  long 
silky  ears.     His  name  is  Bruno." 

"  Well/'  snapped  the  man,  "  where  's  your 
money  ?     Hurry  up  !     I  want  my  breakfast." 

"  Money  !  "  cried  Dicky,  looking  at  Lola. 

"  Money  !  "  whispered  little  Lola,  looking 
back  at  Dicky. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  u  of  course  !  Give  me  a 
dollar  and  I  will  give  you  the  dog." 

"  But,"  answered  Lola,  "  I  have  n't  a  bit  of 
money ;  I  never  have  any." 

"  Neither  have  "  —  began  Dicky ;  and  then 
his  fingers  crept  into  his  trousers  pocket  and 
felt  the  two  silver  half-dollars  that  were  to 
buy  his  tool-box.  He  had  forgotten  all  about 
that  tool-box  for  an  hour,  but  how  could  he 
—  how  could  he  ever  give  away  that  precious 
money  which  he  had  been  so  long  in  getting 
together,  five  cents  at  a  time  ?  He  remem- 
bered the  sharp  little  saw,  the  stout  hammer, 
the  cunning  plane,  bright  chisel,  and  shining 
screw-driver,  and  his  fingers  closed  round  the 
money  tightly;  but  just  then  he  looked  at 


46  DICKY  SMI  LEY'S  BIRTHDAY. 

pretty  little  Lola,  with  her  sad  face,  her 
swollen  eyes  and  the  brave  red  lips  she  was 
trying  to  keep  from  quivering  with  tears. 
That  was  enough ;  he  quickly  drew  out  the 
silver  dollar,  and  said  to  the  pound-man :  — 

"  Here  's  your  dollar  —  give  us  the  dog  !  " 

The  man  looked  much  surprised.  Not  many 
little  eight-year-old  boys  have  a  dollar  in  their 
trousers  pocket. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  earned  every  cent  of  it,"  answered 
poor  Dicky  with  a  lump  in  his  throat  and  a 
choking  voice.  "I  brought  in  coal  and  cut 
kindlings  for  most  six  months  before  I  got 
enough,  and  there  ain't  another  tool-box  in 
the  world  so  good  as  that  one  for  a  dollar 
—  but  I  want  Bruno  !  " 

Then  the  pound-man  showed  them  a  little 
flight  of  steps  that  led  up  to  a  square  hole 
in  the  wall  of  the  pound,  and  told  them  to  go 
up  and  look  through  it  and  see  if  the  dog 
was  there.  They  climbed  up  and  put  their 
two  rosy  eager  faces  at  the  rough  little  win- 
dow. "  Bruno  !  Bruno  !  "  called  little  Lola, 
and  no  Bruno  came ;  but  every  frightened 
homesick  little  doggy  in  that  prison  poked  up 


'HERE'S   YOUR   DOLLAR  — GIVE   US   THE   DOG:'"     (page  46) 


DICKY  SMILEY'S  BIRTHDAY. 


47 


his  nose,  wagged  his  tail,  and  started  for  the 
voice.  It  did  n't  matter  whether  they  were 
Fidos,  or  Carlos,  or  Kovers,  or  Pontos ;  they 
knew  that  they  were  lonesome  little  dogs,  and 
perhaps  somebody  had  remembered  them« 
Lola's  tender  heart  ached  at  the  sight  of  so 
many  fatherless  and  motherless  dogs,  and  she 
cried,  — 

"  No,  no,  you  poor  darlings  !  I  have  n't 
come  for  you ;  I  want  my  own  Bruno." 

"  Sing  for  him,  and  may  be  he  will  come," 
said  Dicky ;  and  Lola  leaned  her  elbow  on  the 
window  sill  and  sang  :  — 


i 


a 


t- 


P 


f-*— ± 


Lit-tle  shoes  are  sold    at  the  gate-way  of  Heaven, 


ib1 ,  _r  r  /  J  J  J  j|r 


X 


-v—v 

And  to    all  the  tattered  lit  -  tie   'an-gels  are  giv-en; 


I 


:*=& 


$=F 


¥ 


*t 


Slum-ber    my    dar  -  ling,    Slum  -  ber    my  dar  -  ling, 


i 


? 


I 


M=Mz 


% 


Slum  -  ber    my      dar  -    ling      sweet  -    ly. 


48  DICKY  SMILEY'S  BIRTHDAY. 

Now  Bruno  was  so  tired  with  running  from 
the  pound-man,  so  hungry,  so  frightened,  and 
so  hoarse  with  barking  that  he  had  gone  to 
sleep ;  but  when  he  heard  Lola's  voice  sing- 
ing the  song  he  knew  so  well,  he  started  up. 
and  out  he  bounded  half  awake  —  the  dear* 
est,  loveliest  little  brown  dog  in  the  world^ 
with  a  cunning  curly  tail  sticking  up  in  a 
round  bob  behind,  two  long  silky  ears  that 
almost  touched  the  ground,  and  four  soft 
white  feet. 

Then  they  were  two  such  glad  children, 
and  such  a  glad  little  brown  dog  was  Bruno ! 
Why,  he  kissed  Lola's  bare  feet  and  hands 
and  face,  and  nearly  chewed  her  apron  into 
rags,  he  was  so  delighted  to  see  his  mistress 
again.  Even  the  cross  pound-man  smiled 
and  said  he  was  the  prettiest  puppy,  and  the 
smartest,  he  had  "ever  had  in  the  pound,  and 
that  when  he  had  shut  him  up  the  night  be- 
fore he  had  gone  through  all  his  funny  tricks 
in  hopes  that  he  would  be  let  out. 

Then  Dicky  and  Lola  walked  back  home 
over  the  dusty  road,  Bruno  running  along  be- 
side  them,  barking  at  the  birds,  sniffing  at 
the  squirrels,  and  chasing  all  the  chickens  and 


DICKY    SMILEY'S  BIRTHDAY.  49 

kittens  he  met  on  the  way,  till  at  last  they 
reached  the  street  corner,  where  Lola  turned 
to  go  to  her  home,  after  kissing  her  new 
friend  and  thanking  him  for  being  so  good 
and  kind  to  her. 

But  what  about  Master  Dicky  himself,  who 
had  lost  his  tool-box  ?  He  did  n't  feel  much 
like  a  smiling  boy  just  then.  He  crept  in  at 
the  back  door,  and  when  he  saw  his  dear 
mother's  face  in  the  kitchen  he  could  n't 
stand  it  a  minute  longer,  but  burst  out  cry- 
ing, and  told  her  all  about  it. 

"  Well,  my  little  son,"  said  she,  "  I  'm  very, 
very  sorry.  I  wish  I  could  give  you  another 
dollar,  but  I  have  n't  any  money  to  spare. 
You  did  just  right  to  help  Lola  find  Bruno, 
and  buy  him  back  for  her,  and  I  'm  very 
proud  of  my  boy ;  but  you  can't  give  away 
the  dollar  and  have  the  tool-box  too.  So 
wipe  your  eyes,  and  try  to  be  happy.  You 
didn't  eat  any  breakfast,  dear,  take  a  piece 
of  nice  bread  and  sugar." 

So  Dicky  dried  his  tears  and  began  to  eat 

After  a  while  he  wanted  to  wipe  his  sticky, 
sugary  little  mouth,  and  as  he  took  his  clean 
handkerchief  out  of  his  pocket,  two  shining, 


50  DICKY  SMILEY9 S  BIRTHDAY. 

chinking,  clinking  round  things  tumbled  out 
on  the  floor  and  rolled  under  the  kitchen 
table  !  What  could  they  have  been  !  Why, 
his  two  silver  half-dollars,  to  be  sure.  And 
\vhere  in  the  world  did  they  come  from,  do 
you  suppose  ?  Why,  it  was  the  nicest,  fun- 
niest thing !  The  pound-man  was  not  so 
crosi  after  all,  for  he  thought  Lola  and  Dicky 
v  ore  two  such  kind  children,  and  Bruno  such 
a  cunning  dog,  that  he  could  not  bear  to 
take  Dicky's  dollar  away  from  him ;  so  while 
the  little  boy  was  looking  the  other  way  the 
pound-man  just  slipped  the  money  back  into 
Dick's  bit  of  a  pocket  without  saying  a  word. 
Was  n't  that  a  beautiful  surprise  ? 

So  Dicky  ran  to  the  corner  store  as  fast  as 
his  feet  could  carry  him,  and  bought  the  tool- 
box. 

Every  Saturday  afternoon  he  has  such  a 
pleasant  time  playing  with  it !  And  who  do 
you  suppose  sits  on  the  white  kitchen  floor 
with  Dot  and  Bess,  watching  him  make  dolls' 
tables  and  chairs  with  his  carpenter's  tools? 
Why,  Lola,  to  be  sure,  and  a  little  brown 
dog  too,  with  a  cunning  curly  tail  turned  up 
in  a  round  bob  behind,  and  two  long  silky 


DICKY  SMILEY' S  BIRTHDAY,  51 

Bars  touching  the  floor.  For  Dick's  mamma 
had  such  -a  big  heart  that  I  do  believe  it 
would  have  held  all  the  children  in  the  world, 
and  as  Lola's  uncle  didn't  care  for  her  the 
least  little  bit,  he  gave  her  to  this  mamma  of 
Dicky's,  who  grew  to  love  this  little  girl  al- 
most as  well  as  she  loved  her  own  Dicky  and 
Dot  and  Bess. 


AQUA;    OR,  THE  WATER  BABY.1 


"  This  standing  above  life,  and  yet  grasping  life,  and  be- 
ing stirred  by  life,  is  what  makes  the  genuine  educator.,,  — 
Froebel. 

It  was  a  clear,  sunshiny  day,  and  out  on  the 
great,  wide,  open  sea  there  sparkled  thousands 
and  thousands  of  water-drops.  One  of  these 
was  a  merry  little  fellow  who  danced  on  the 
silver  backs  of  the  fishes  as  they  plunged  up 
and  down  in  the  waves,  and,  no  matter  how 
high  he  sprung,  always  came  down  again 
plump  into  his  mother's  lap. 

His  mother,  you  know,  was  the  Ocean,  and 
very  beautiful  she  looked  that  summer  day  in 
her  dark  blue  dress  and  white  ruffles. 

By  and  by  the  happy  water-drop  tired  of 

1  The  plan  of  this  story  was  suggested  to  me  many  years 
ago  ;  so  many,  indeed,  that  I  cannot  now  remember  whether 
it  was  my  friend's  own,  or  whether  he  had  read  something 
Like  it  in  German.  —  K.  D.  W. 


AQUA;   OR,    THE    WATER  BABY.  53 

his  play,  and  looking  up  to  the  clear  sky- 
above  him  thought  he  would  like  to  have  a 
sail  on  one  of  the  white  floating  clouds ;  so, 
giving  a  jump  from  the  Ocean's  arms,  he 
begged  the  Sun  to  catch  him  up  and  let  him 
go  on  a  journey  to  see  the  earth. 

The  Sun  said  "  Yes,"  and  took  ever  so 
many  other  drops  too,  so  that  Aqua  might  not 
be  lonesome  on  the  way.  He  did  not  know 
this,  however,  for  they  all  had  been  changed 
into  fine  mist  or  vapor.  Do  you  know  what 
vapor  is  ?  If  you  breathe  into  the  air,  when 
it  is  cold  enough,  you  will  see  it  coming  out 
of  your  mouth  like  steam,  and  you  may  also 
see  very  hot  steam  coming  from  the  nose  of 
a  kettle  of  boiling  water.  When  it  is  quite 
near  to  the  earth,  where  we  can  see  it,  we  call 
it "  fog."  The  water-drops  had  been  changed 
into  vapor  because  in  their  own  shape  they 
were  too  heavy  for  sunbeams  to  carry. 

Higher  and  higher  they  sailed,  so  fast  that 
they  grew  quite  dizzy ;  why,  in  an  hour  they 
had  gone  over  a  hundred  miles !  and  how 
grand  it  was,  to  be  looking  down  on  the  world 
below,  and  sailing  faster  than  fish  can  swim 
or  birds  can  fly ! 


54  AQUA;   OR,   THE   WATER  BABY. 

But  after  a  while  it  grew  nearly  time  for 
the  Sun  to  go  to  bed ;  he  became  very  red  in 
the  face,  and  began  to  sink  lower  and  lower, 
until  suddenly  he  went  clear  out  of  sight ! 

Poor  little  Aqua  could  not  help  being 
frightened,  for  every  minute  it  grew  darker 
and  colder.  At  last  he  thought  he  would  try 
to  get  back  to  the  earth  again,  so  he  slipped 
away,  and  as  he  fell  lower  and  lower  he  grew 
heavier,  until  he  was  a  little  round,  bright 
drop  again,  and  alighted  on  a  rosebush.  A 
lovely  velvet  bud  opened  its  leaves,  and  in  he 
slipped  among  the  crimson  cushions,  to  sleep 
until  morning.  Then  the  leaves  opened,  and 
rolling  over  in  his  bed  he  called  out,  "  Please, 
dear  Sun,  take  me  with  you  again."  So  the 
sunbeams  caught  him  up  a  second  time,  and 
they  flew  through  the  air  till  the  noon-time, 
when  it  grew  warmer  and  warmer,  and  there 
was  no  red  rose  to  hide  him,  not  even  a  blade 
of  grass  to  shade  hL  tired  head ;  but  just  as 
he  was  crying  out,  "  Please,  King  Sun,  let  me 
go  back  to  the  dear  mother  Ocean,"  the  wind 
took  pity  on  him,  and  came  with  its  cool  breath 
and  fanned  him,  with  all  his  brothers,  into  a 
heavy  gray  cloud,  after  which  he  blew  them 


AQUA;    OR,    THE    WATER  BABY.  55 

apart  and  told  them  to  join  hands  and  hurry 
away  to  the  earth.  Helter-skelter  down  they 
went,  rolling  over  each  other  pell-mell,  till 
with  a  patter  and  clatter  and  spatter  thej 
touched  the  ground,  and  all  the  people  cried, 
"It  rains." 

Some  of  the  drops  fell  on  a  mountain  side, 
Aqua  among  them,  and  down  the  rocky  cliff 
he  ran,  leading  the  way  for  his  brothers. 
Soon,  together  they  plunged  into  a  mountain 
brook,  which  came  foaming  and  dashing  along, 
leaping  over  rocks  and  rushing  down  the  hill- 
side, till  in  the  valley  below  they  heard  the 
strangest  clattering  noise. 

On  the  bank  stood  a  flour-mill,  and  at  the 
door  a  man  whose  hat  and  clothes  were  gray 
with  dust. 

Inside  the  mill  were  two  great  stones,  which 
kept  whizzing  round  and  round,  faster  than  a 
boy's  top  could  spin,  worked  by  the  big  wheel 
outside ;  and  these  stones  ground  the  wheat 
into  flour  and  the  corn  into  golden  meal. 

But  what  giant  do  you  suppose  it  was  who 
could  turn  and  swing  that  tremendous  wheel, 
together  with  those  heavy  stones  ?  No  giant 
at  all.      No  one  but    our  tiny  little  water- 


56  AQUA;    OR,    THE    WATER  BABY. 

drops  themselves,  who  sprang  on  it  by  hun« 
dreds  and  thousands,  and  whirled  it  over  and 
over. 

The  brook  emptied  into  a  quiet  pond  where 
dueks  and  geese  were  swimming.  Such  a  still, 
beautiful  place  it  was,  with  the  fuzzy,  brown 
cat-tails  lifting  their  heads  above  the  water, 
and  the  yellow  cow  lilies,  with  their  leaves 
like  green  platters,  floating  on  the  top.  On 
the  edge  lived  the  fat  green  bullfrogs,  and  in 
the  water  were  spotted  trout,  silver  shiners, 
cunning  minnows,  and  other  fish. 

Aqua  liked  this  place  so  much  that  he 
stayed  a  good  while,  sailing  up  and  down, 
taking  the  ducks'  backs  for  ships  and  the  frogs 
for  horses ;  but  after  a  time  he  tired  of  the 
dull  life,  and  he  and  his  brothers  floated  out 
over  a  waterfall  and  under  a  bridge  for  a  long, 
long  distance,  until  they  saw  another  brook 
tumbling  down  a  hillside. 

"  Come,  let 's  join  hands  !  "  cried  Aqua ;  and 
so  they  all  dashed  on  together  till  they  came 
to  a  broad  river  which  opened  its  arms  to 
them. 

By  the  help  of  Aqua  and  his  brothers  the 
beautiful  river  was  able  to  float  heavy  ships, 


AQUA;   OR,    THE   WATER   BABY.  57 

though  not  so  long  ago  it  was  only  a  little 
rill,  through  which  a  child  could  wade  or  over 
which  he  could  step.  Here  a  vessel  loaded 
with  lumber  was  carried  just  as  easily  as  if  it 
had  been  a  paper  boat ;  there  a  steamer,  piled 
with  boxes  and  barrels,  and  crowded  with 
people,  passed  by,  its  great  wheel  crashing 
through  the  water  and  leaving  a  long  trail,  as 
of  foamy  soapsuds,  behind  it.  On  and  ever 
on  the  river  went,  seeking  the  ocean,  and 
whether  it  hurried  round  a  corner  or  glided 
smoothly  on  its  way  to  the  sea,  there  was 
always  something  new  and  strange  to  be  seen 
—  busy  cities,  quiet  little  towns,  buzzing  saw- 
mills, stone  bridges,  and  harbors  full  of  all 
sorts  of  vessels,  large  and  small,  with  flags  of 
all  colors  floating  from  the  masts  and  sailors 
of  all  countries  working  on  the  decks.  But 
Aqua  did  not  stay  long  in  any  place,  for  as 
the  river  grew  wider  and  wider,  and  nearer 
and  nearer  its  end,  he  could  almost  see  the 
mother  Ocean  into  whose  arms  he  was  joyfully 
running.  She  reached  out  to  gather  all  her 
children,  the  water-drops,  into  her  heart,  and 
closer  than  all  the  others  nestled  our  little 
A.qua. 


58  AQUA;   OR,    THE   WATER  BABY. 

His  travels  were  over,  his  pleasures  and 
dangers  past ;  and  he  was  folded  again  to  the 
dear  mother  heart,  the  safest,  sweetest  place  in 
all  the  whole  wide  world.  In  warm,  still  sum- 
mer evenings,  if  you  will  take  a  walk  on  the 
sea-beach,  you  will  hear  the  gentle  rippling 
swash  of  the  waves;  and  some  very  wise 
people  think  it  must  be  the  gurgling  voices  of 
Aqua  and  his  brother  water-drops  telling  each 
other  about  their  wonderful  journey  round 
the  world. 


MOUFFLOU. 


ADAPTED   FROM   OUIDA. 


"We  tell  too  few  stories  to  children,  and  those  we 
tell  are  stories  whose  heroes  are  automata  and  stuffed  dolls." 
—  Froebel. 

Lolo  and  Moufflou  lived  far  away  from 
here,  in  a  sunny  country  called  Italy. 

Lolo  was  not  as  strong  as  you  are,  and  could 
never  run  about  and  play,  for  he  was  lame, 
poor  fellow,  and  always  had  to  hop  along  on 
a  little  crutch.  He  was  never  well  enough  to 
go  to  school,  but  as  his  fingers  were  active 
and  quick  he  could  plait  straw  matting  and 
make  baskets  at  home.  He  had  four  or  five 
rosy,  bright  little  brothers  and  sisters,  but 
they  were  all  so  strong  and  could  play  all  day 
so  easily  that  Lolo  was  not  with  them  much ; 
so  Moufflou  was  his  very  best  friend,  and  they 
were  together  all  day  long. 

Moufflou   was   a   snow-white   poodle,  with 


60  MOUFFLOU. 

such  soft,  curly  wool  that  he  looked  just  like 
a  lamb ;  and  the  man  who  gave  him  to  the 
children,  when  he  was  a  little  puppy,  had 
called  him  "  Moufflon/'  which  meant  sheep  in 
his  country. 

Lolo's  father  had  died  four  years  before; 
but  he  had  a  mother,  who  had  to  work  very 
hard  to  keep  the  children  clean  and  get  them 
enough  to  eat.  He  had,  too,  a  big  brother 
Tasso,  who  worked  for  a  gardener,  and  every 
Saturday  night  brought  his  wages  home  to 
help  feed  and  clothe  the  little  children. 
Tasso  was  almost  a  man  now,  and  in  that 
country  as  soon  as  you  grow  to  be  a  man  you 
have  to  go  away  and  be  a  soldier ;  so  Lolo's 
mother  was  troubled  all  the  time  for  fear  that 
her  Tasso  would  be  taken  away.  If  you  have 
money  enough,  you  can  always  pay  some  one 
to  go  in  your  place ;  but  Tasso  had  no  money, 
and  neither  had  the  poor  mother,  so  every  day 
she  was  anxious  lest  her  boy  might  have  to 
go  to  the  wars. 

But  Lolo  and  Moufflou  knew  nothing  of 
all  this,  and  every  day,  when  Lolo  was  well 
enough,  they  were  happy  together.  They 
would   walk   up   the   streets,   or   sit   on   the 


MOUFFLOU.  61 

church  steps,  or,  if  the  day  was  fair,  would 
perhaps  go  into  the  country  and  bring  home 
great  bundles  of  yellow  and  blue  and  crimson 
flowers. 

The  tumble-down  old  house  in  which  the 
family  lived  was  near  a  tall,  gray  church.  It 
was  a  beautiful  old  church,  and  all  the  chil- 
dren loved  it,  but  Lolo  most  of  all.  He  loved 
it  in  the  morning,  when  the  people  brought  in 
great  bunches  of  white  lilies  to  trim  it ;  and 
at  noon,  when  it  was  cool  and  shady ;  and  at 
sunset,  when  the  long  rays  shone  through  the 
painted  windows  and  made  blue  and  golden 
and  violet  lights  on  the  floor. 

One  morning  Lolo  and  Moufflou  were  sit- 
ting on  the  church  steps  and  watching  the 
people,  when  a  gentleman  who  was  passing 
by  stopped  to  look  at  the  dog. 

"  That 's  a  very  fine  poodle,"  he  said. 

"  Indeed  he  is,"  cried  Lolo.  "  But  you 
should  see  him  on  Sundays  when  he  is  just 
washed ;  then  he  is  as  white  as  snow." 

"Can  he  do  any  tricks?"  asked  the  gentle- 
man. 

"  I  should  say  so,"  said  Lolo,  for  he  had 
taught  the  dog  all  he  knew.     "  He  can  stand 


62  MOUFFLOU. 


, 


on  his  hind  legs,  he  can  dance,  he  can  speak, 
he  can  make  a  wheelbarrow  of  himself,  and 
when  I  put  a  biscuit  on  his  nose  and  count 
one,  two,  three,  he  will  snap  and  catch  the 
biscuit." 

The  gentleman  said  he  should  like  to  see 
some  of  the  tricks,  and  Mouffiou  was  very 
glad  to  do  them,  for  no  one  had  ever  whipped 
him  or  hurt  him,  and  he  loved  to  do  what  his 
little  master  wished.  Then  the  gentleman 
told  Lolo  that  he  had  a  little  boy  at  home,  so 
weak  and  so  sick  that  he  could  not  get  up 
from  the  sofa,  and  that  he  would  like  to  have 
Lolo  bring  the  poodle  to  show  him  the  next 
day,  so  he  gave  Lolo  some  money,  and  told 
him  the  name  of  the  hotel  where  he  was  stay- 
ing. 

Lolo  went  hopping  home  as  fast  as  his  lit- 
tle crutch  could  carry  him,  and  went  quickly 
upstairs  to  his  mother. 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  "  he  said.  "  See  the  money 
a  gentleman  gave  me,  and  all  because  dear 
Moufflou  did  his  pretty  tricks  so  nicely.  Now 
you  can  have  your  coffee  every  morning,  and# 
Tasso  can  have  his  new  suit  for  Sunday.'* 
Then  he  told  his  mother  about  the  gentleman, 


"HE  WILL  SNAP  AND  CATCH  THE  BISCUIT"'    (page  62) 


MOUFFLOU.  63 

and  that  he  had  promised  to  take  Moufflou  to 
see  him  the  next  day. 

So  when  the  morning  came,  Moufflou  was 
washed  as  white  as  snow,  and  his  pretty  curls 
were  tied  up  with  blue  ribbon,  and  they  both 
trotted  off.  Moufflou  was  so  proud  of  his 
curls  and  his  ribbon  that  he  hardly  liked 
to  put  his  feet  on  the  ground  at  all.  They 
were  shown  to  the  little  boy's  room,  where  he 
lay  on  the  sofa  very  pale  and  unhappy.  A 
bright  little  look  came  into  his  eyes  when  he 
saw  the  dog,  and  he  laughed  when  Moufflou 
did  his  tricks.  How  he  clapped  his  hands 
when  he  saw  him  make  a  wheelbarrow,  and  he 
tossed  them  both  handf  uls  of  cakes  and  can- 
dies !  Neither  the  boy  nor  the  dog  ever  had 
quite  enough  to  eat,  so  they  nibbled  the  little 
cakes  with  their  sharp,  white  teeth,  and  were 
very  glad. 

When  Lolo  got  up  to  go,  the  little  boy 
began  to  cry,  and  said,  "  Oh,  I  want  the 
dog.     Let  me  have  the  dog  !  " 

"  Oh,  indeed  I  can't,"  said  Lolo,  "  he  is  my 
own  Moufflou,  and  I  cannot  let  you  have 
him." 

The  little  boy  was  so  unhappy  and  cried  so 


64  MOUFFLOU. 

bitterly  that  Lolo  was  very  sorry  to  see  him, 
and  he  went  quickly  down  the  stairs  with 
Moufflou.  The  gentleman  gave  him  more 
money  this  time,  and  he  was  so  excited  and  so 
glad  that  he  went  very  fast  all  the  way  home, 
swinging  himself  over  the  stones  on  his  little 
crutch.  But  when  he  opened  the  door,  there 
was  his  mother  crying  as  if  her  heart  would 
break,  and  all  the  children  were  crying  in  a 
corner,  and  even  Tasso  was  home  from  his 
work,  looking  very  unhappy. 

"Oh!  what  is  the  matter?"  cried  Lolo. 
But  no  one  answered  him,  and  Moufflou,  see- 
ing them  all  so  sad,  sat  down  and  threw  up 
his  nose  in  the  air  and  howled  a  long,  sad 
howl.  By  and  by  one  of  the  children  told 
Lolo  that  at  last  Tasso  had  been  chosen 
to  be  a  soldier,  and  that  he  must  soon  go 
away  to  the  war.  The  poor  mother  said,  cry- 
ing, that  she  did  not  know  what  would  become 
of  her  little  children  through  the  long,  cold 
winter. 

Lolo  showed  her  his  money,  but  she  was  too 
unhappy  even  to  care  for  that,  and  so  by  and 
by  he  went  to  his  bed  with  Moufflou.  The 
dog  had  always  slept  at  Lolo's  feet,  but  this 


MOUFFLOU.     '  65 

night  he  crept  close  up  by  the  side  of  his  lit- 
tle master,  and  licked  his  hand  now  and  then 
to  show  that  he  was  sorry. 

The  next  morning  Lolo  and  Moufflou  went 
with  Tasso  to  the  gardens  where  he  worked, 
and  all  the  way  along  the  bright  river  and 
among  the  green  trees  they  talked  together 
of  what  they  should  do  when  Tasso  had  gone. 
Tasso  said  that  if  they  could  only  get  some 
money  he  wrould  not  have  to  go  away  to  the 
wars,  but  he  shook  his  head  sadly  and  knew 
that  no  one  would  lend  it  to  them.  At  noon 
Lolo  went  home  with  Moufflou  to  his  dinner. 
When  they  had  finished  (it  was  only  bean  soup 
and  soon  eaten),  the  mother  told  Lolo  that  his 
aunt  wanted  him  to  go  and  see  her  that  after- 
noon, and  take  care  of  the  children  while  she 
went  out.  So  Lolo  put  on  his  hat,  called 
Moufflou,  and  was  limping  toward  the  door, 
when  his  mother  said  :  — 

"  No,  don't  take  the  dog  to-day,  your  aunt 
does  n't  like  him ;  leave  him  here  with  me." 

"Leave  Moufflou?"  said  Lolo,  "why,  I 
never  leave  him ;  he  would  n't  know  what  to 
do  without  me  all  the  afternoon." 

*  Yes,  leave  him,"   said  his   mother.     "  1 


66  '     MOUFFLOU. 

don't  want  you  to  take  him  with  you.  Don't 
let  me  tell  you  again."  So  Lolo  turned 
around  and  went  down  the  stairs,  feeling  very 
sad  at  leaving  his  dear  Moufflou  even  for  a 
short  time.  But  the  hours  went  by,  and  when 
night-time  came  he  hurried  back  to  the  little 
old  home.  He  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the 
long,  dark  stairway  and  called  "  Moufflou ! 
Moufflou !  "  but  no  doggie  came ;  then  he 
climbed  half-way  up  to  the  landing  and  called 
again,  "  Moufflou ! "  but  no  little  white  feet 
came  pattering  down.  Up  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs  went  poor  tired  Lolo  and  opened  the 
door. 

"Why,  where  is  my  Moufflou?"  he  said. 

The  mother  had  been  crying,  and  she 
looked  very  sad  and  did  not  answer  him  for  a 
moment. 

"  Where  is  my  Moufflou  ? "  asked  Lolo 
again,  "what  have  you  done  with  my  dear 
Moufflou?" 

"  He  is  sold,"  the  mother  said  at  last, 
u  sold  to  the  gentleman  who  has  the  little 
lame  boy.  He  came  here  to-day,  and  he  likes 
the  dog  so  much  and  his  little  boy  was  so 
pleased  at  the  pretty  tricks  he  does,  that  he 


MOUFFLOU.  67 

told  me  he  would  give  a  great  deal  of  money 
if  I  would  sell  him  the  dog.  Just  think,  Lolo, 
he  gave  me  so  much  money  that  we  can  pay 
somebody  now  to  go  to  the  war  for  Tasso." 

But  before  she  had  finished  talking,  Lolo 
began  to  grow  white  and  cold  and  to  waver 
to  and  fro,  so  that  his  little  crutch  could 
hardly  support  him.  When  she  had  done  he 
called  out,  "My  Moufflou  —  my  Moufflou 
sold!"  and  he  threw  his  hands  up  over  his 
head  and  fell  all  in  a  heap  on  the  floor,  his 
poor  little  crutch  clattering  down  beside  him. 
His  mother  took  him  up  and  laid  him  on  his 
bed,  but  all  night  long  he  tossed  to  and  fro, 
calling  for  his  dog.  When  the  morning  came, 
his  little  hands  and  his  head  were  very,  very 
hot,  and  by  and  by  the  doctor  came  and  said 
he  had  a  fever.  He  asked  the  mother  what  it 
was  the  little  boy  was  calling  for,  and  she  told 
him  that  it  was  his  dog,  and  that  he  had  been 
sold.  The  doctor  shook  his  head,  and  then 
went  away. 

Day  after  day  poor  Lolo  lay  on  his  bed. 
His  hair  had  been  cut  short,  he  did  not  know 
his  brothers  and  sisters,  nor  his  mother,  and 
his  little  aching  head  went  to  and  fro,  to  and 


68  MOUFFLOU. 

fro,  on  the  pillow  from  morning  till  night. 
Once  Tasso  went  to  the  hotel  to  find  the  gen- 
tleman. He  was  going  to  tell  him  to  take  the 
money  and  give  him  back  the  dog ;  but  the 
gentleman  had  gone  many  miles  away  on  the 
cars  and  taken  Moufflou  with  him.  So  every 
day  Lolo  grew  weaker,  until  the  doctor  said 
that  he  must  die  very  soon. 

One  afternoon  they  were  all  in  the  room 
with  him.  The  windows  were  wide  open. 
His  mother  sat  by  his  bed  and  the  children 
on  the  floor  beside  her;  even  Tasso  was  at 
home  helping  to  take  care  of  his  little  bro- 
ther. All  was  so  still  that  you  could  hear 
poor  Lolo's  faint  breath,  when  —  suddenly  — 
there  was  a  scampering  and  a  pattering  of 
little  feet  on  the  stairs,  and  a  white  poodle 
dashed  into  the  room  and  jumped  on  the  bed. 
It  was  Moufflou !  but  you  would  never  have 
known  him,  for  he  was  so  thin  that  you  could 
count  all  his  bones.  His  curls  were  dirty, 
and  matted,  and  full  of  sticks  and  straws  and 
burrs ;  his  feet  were  dusty  and  bleeding,  and 
you  could  tell  in  a  moment  that  he  had  trav- 
eled a  great  many  miles.  When  he  jumped 
on  the  bed,  Lolo  opened  his  eyes  a  little.     He 


MOUFFLOU.  69 

saw  it  was  Moufflou,  and  laid  one  little  thin 
hand  on  the  dog's  head;  then  he  turned  on 
his  pillow,  closed  his  eyes,  and  went  quietly  to 
sleep.  Moufflou  would  not  get  off  the  bed, 
and  would  eat  nothing  unless  they  brought  it 
to  him  there.  He  only  lay  close  by  his  little 
master,  with  his  brown  eyes  wide  open,  look- 
ing straight  into  his  face.  By  and  by  the 
doctor  came,  and  said  that  Lolo  was  really  a 
little  better,  and  that  perhaps  he  might  get 
^ell  now.  The  mother  and  Tasso  were  very 
glad  indeed,  but  they  knew  that  the  gentle- 
man would  come  back  for  his  dog,  and  they 
scarcely  knew  what  to  do,  nor  what  to  say  to 
him.  Lolo  grew  a  little  stronger  every  day, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  week  a  man  came  up- 
stairs asking  if  Moufflou  was  there.  They 
had  taken  him  a  long  way  off,  but  he  had 
run  away  from  them  one  day,  and  they  had 
never  been  able  to  find  him.  Tasso  asked  the 
messenger  to  let  Moufflou  stay  until  he  had 
seen  the  gentleman,  and  he  took  the  money 
and  put  on  his  hat  and  went  with  him  to  the 
hotel.  The  sick  boy  was  in  the  room  with 
his  father,  and  Tasso  went  straight  to  them 
and  told  them  all  about  it :  that  Lolo  nearly 


70  MOUFFLOU. 

died  without  his  dear  Moufflou,  that  day  after 
day  he  lay  in  his  bed  calling  for  the  dog,  and 
that  at  last  one  afternoon  Moufflou  came  back 
to  them,  thin  and  hungry  and  dirty,  but  so 
glad  to  see  his  little  master  again.  Nobody 
knew,  said  Tasso,  how  he  could  have  found  his 
way  so  many  miles  alone,  but  there  he  was, 
and  now  he  begged  the  gentleman  to  be  so 
kind  as  to  take  back  the  money.  He  would 
go  and  be  a  soldier,  if  he  must ;  but  Lolo  and 
his  dog  must  never  be  parted  again. 

The  gentleman  told  Tasso  that  he  seemed 
to  be  a  kind  brother,  and  that  he  might  keep 
the  money  and  the  dog  too,  if  only  he  would 
find  them  another  poodle  and  teach  him  to  be 
as  wise  and  faithful  as  Moufflou  was.  Tasso 
was  so  glad  that  he  thanked  them  again  and 
again,  and  hurried  home  to  tell  Lolo  and  his 
mother  the  good  news.  He  soon  found  a 
poodle  almost  as  pretty  as  Moufflou,  and  every 
day  Lolo,  who  has  grown  strong  now,  helps 
Tasso  to  teach  him  all  of  Moufflou's  tricks. 

Sometimes  Lolo  turns  and  puts  his  arms 
around  Moufflou's  neck  and  says,  — 

"  Tell  me,  my  Moufflou,  how  you  ever  came 
back  to  me,  over  all  the  rivers,  and  all  the 
bridges,  and  all  the  miles  of  road  ?  " 


MOUFFLOU.  71 

Moufflou  can  never  answer  him,  but  I  think 
he  must  have  found  his  way  home  because  he 
loved  his  master  so  much  ;  and  the  grown 
people  always  say,  "Love  will  find  out  the 
way." 


BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND. 

ADAPTED   FROM   MRS.    EWING. 


•6With  the  genuine  story-teller  the  inner  life  of  the 
genuine  listener  is  roused  ;  he  is  carried  out  of  himself,  and 
he   thereby   measures  himself."  —  Froebel. 

Bekjy  was  a  very  naughty ,  disagreeable 
boy !  It  is  sad  to  say  it,  but  it  is  truth.  He 
always  had  a  cloudy,  smudgy,  slovenly  look, 
like  a  slate  half-washed,  that  made  one  feel 
how  nice  it  would  be  if  he  could  be  scrubbed 
inside  and  out  with  hot  water  and  soap. 

Benjy  was  the  only  boy  in  the  family,  but 
he  had  two  little  sisters  who  were  younger 
than  he.  They  were  dear,  merry  little  things, 
and  many  boys  would  have  found  them  plea- 
sant little  playmates ;  but  Benjy  had  shown 
how  much  he  disliked  to  play  with  them,  and 
it  made  them  feel  very  badly.  One  of  them 
said  one  day,  "Benjy  does  not  care  for  us 


BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND.  73 

because  we  are  only  girls,  so  we  have  taken 
Nox  for  our  brother."  Nox  was  a  big  curly 
dog,  something  like  a  Newfoundland. 

Now  Benjy  was  not  at  all  handsome,  and  he 
hated  tubs  and  brushes  and  soap  and  water. 
He  liked  to  lie  abed  late  in  the  mornings,  and 
when  he  got  up  he  had  only  time  enough  to 
half  wash  himself.  But  Nox  rose  early,  liked 
cold  water,  had  snow-white  teeth  and  glossy 
hair,  and  when  you  spoke  to  him  he  looked 
straight  up  at  you  with  his  clear  honest  brown 
eyes.  Benjy's  jacket  and  shirt-front  were 
always  spotted  with  dirt,  while  the  covering 
of  Nox's  chest  was  glossy  and  well  kept. 
Benjy  came  into  the  parlor  with  muddy  boots 
and  dirty  hands ;  but  Nox,  if  he  had  been  out 
in  the  mud,  would  lie  down  when  he  came 
home,  and  lick  his  brown  paws  till  they  were 
quite  clean.  Benjy  liked  to  kill  all  kinds  of 
animals,  but  Nox  saved  lives,  though  he  often 
came  near  losing  his  own. 

Near  their  home  was  a  deep  river,  where 
many  a  dog  and  cat  was  drowned.  There 
was  one  place  on  the  bank  of  this  river  where 
there  was  an  old  willow-tree,  which  spread  its 
branches  wide  and  stretched  its  long  arms  till 


74  BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND. 

they  touched  the  water.  Here  Nox  used  to 
bring  everything  that  he  found  in  the  river. 

I  must  tell  you  that  Benjy  did  not  like  Nox, 
and  with  very  good  reason.  Benjy  had  had 
something  to  do  with  the  death  of  several 
animals  belonging  to  the  people  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  he  had  tied  stones  or  tin  cans 
around  their  necks  and  dropped  them  into  the 
river.  But  Nox  used  to  wander  round  quite 
early  in  the  morning,  and  very  often  found  in 
the  river  and  brought  out  what  Benjy  had 
thrown  in,  and  this  is  why  he  did  not  like  the 
brave  dog. 

There  was  another  dog  in  the  family,  named 
Mr.  Rough.  His  eyes  had  been  almost 
scratched  out  by  cats,  his  little  body  bore 
marks  of  many  beatings,  and  he  had  a  hoarse 
bark  which  sounded  as  if  he  had  a  bad  cold. 

If  Benjy  cared  for  any  animal,  it  was  for 
Mr.  Rough,  although  he  treated  him  worse 
than  he  did  Nox,  because  he  was  small. 

One  day  Benjy  felt  very  mischievous;  he 
even  played  a  cruel  trick  on  Nox  while  he  was 
asleep.  As  he  sat  near  to  him  he  kept  lightly 
pricking  the  dog's  lips  with  a  fine  needle. 
The  dog  would  half  wake  up,  shake  his  head, 


BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND.  75 

rub  his  lips  with  his  paws,  and  then  drop  off 
to  sleep  again. 

At  last  this  cruel  boy  stuck  the  needle  in 
too  far  and  hurt  poor  Nox,  who  jumped  up 
with  a  start,  and  as  he  did  so  the  needle  broke 
off,  part  of  it  staying  in  the  flesh,  where,  after 
a  great  deal  of  work  which  hurt  the  poor 
dog  dreadfully,  the  little  sisters  found  it. 
How  they  cried  for  their  pet!  The  braver 
one  held  Nox's  lips  and  pulled  out  the  needle, 
while  the  other  wiped  the  tears  from  her 
sister's  eyes,  that  she  might  see  what  she  was 
doing.  Nox  sat  still  and  moaned  and  wagged 
his  tail  very  feebly,  but  when  it  was  over  he 
fairly  knocked  the  little  sisters  down  in  his 
eagerness  to  show  his  gratitude.  But  Benjy 
went  out  and  found  Mr.  Eough,  and  as  he  did 
not  feel  like  being  kind  to  any  one,  he  kicked 
him,  and  Mr.  Rough  for  the  first  time  ran 
away.  Benjy  could  not  find  him,  but  he  found 
a  boy  as  naughty  as  himself,  who  was  chasing 
another  little  dog  and  pelting  it  with  stones. 
This  would  have  been  very  good  fun,  but  one 
of  the  stones  struck  the  dog  and  killed  him. 
So  the  boys  tied  something  around  his  neck 
and  threw  him  into  the  river. 


76  BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND. 

Benjy  went  to  bed  early  that  night,  but  he 
could  not  sleep,  because  he  was  thinking  of 
that  little  white  dog,  and  wishing  he  had  not 
thrown  him  into  the  river ;  so  at  last  he  got  up 
and  went  to  the  willow-tree.  He  looked  up 
through  the  branches  and  saw  the  moon  shin- 
ing down  at  him,  and  it  seemed  so  large  and 
so  close  that  he  thought  if  he  were  only  on 
the  highest  part  of  the  tree  he  could  touch 
it  with  his  hand.  While  he  was  looking  he 
thought  of  a  book  his  mother  had,  which  told 
him  that  all  animals  went  up  into  the  moon 
after  they  left  the  earth. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Benjy,  "  if  that  dog  we 
killed  last  night  is  really  up  there." 

The  Man  in  the  Moon  looked  down  on  him 
just  then,  and,  to  his  surprise,  said :  — 

"  This  is  Beastland.  Won't  you  come  up 
and  see  if  the  dog  is  here  ?     Can  you  climb  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  can,"  said  Benjy,  and  he  climbed 
up  first  on  one  branch,  then  up  higher  on  to 
another,  till  he  stood  on  the  very  top,  and  all 
he  could  see  about  him  was  a  shining  white 
light. 

"  Walk  right  in,"  said  the  Man  in  the  Moon. 
"  Put  out  your  feet,  —  don't  be  afraid  !  "     So 


BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND.  77 

Benjy  stepped  into  the  moon  and  found  him- 
self in  Beastland. 

Oh  !  it  was  such  a  funny  place,  and  yet  it  was 
very  beautiful.  There  were  many  more  beasts 
there  than  in  a  menagerie,  and  they  were  so 
polite  to  each  other,  too,  and  so  merry  and 
kind  to  Benjy,  that  it  made  him  feel  quite  at 
home. 

A  nice  old  spider  was  anxious  to  teach  him 
how  to  make  a  web.     So  he  said  to  Benjy  :  — 

"  When  you  are  ready,  look  around  and 
find  a  spot  where  you  can  tie  your  first  line ; 
then  you  have  a  ball  of  thread  inside  of  you? 
of  course." 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  have,"  said  Benjy,  "  but 
I  have  a  good  deal  of  string  in  my  pocket." 

"Oh,  well!"  said  the  spider,  "that  is  all 
right;  whether  it's,  in  your  pocket  or  your 
stomach  it  is  all  the  same." 

Just  as  the  spider  was  giving  Benjy  his 
lesson,  one  animal  whispered  to  another,  and 
that  one  to  another,  who  and  what  Benjy  was. 
Dear  me !  in  a  minute  the  beasts  all  changed 
their  way  of  treating  him.  They  called  him 
Boy  !  and  up  there  that  meant  something  not 
at  all  nice.     Then  they  took  him  to  the  Lion, 


78  BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND. 

the  king  of  all  the  beasts,  and  asked  him  what 
should  be  done  with  the  Boy. 

The  Lion  said :  "  If  you  want  me  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  this  trouble,  you  must 
mind  me.  First,  however,  we  will  hear  what 
Benjy  has  to  say  for  himself.' p 

They  all  placed  themselves  in  a  circle,  the 
Lion  on  a  high  chair,  (because,  you  know,  he 
was  going  to  be  judge,  and  all  judges  sit  in 
big  chairs,)  and  Benjy  sat  in  the  middle  of 
the  circle. 

"  Now,  what  has  the  Boy  done  ?  "  asked  the 
Lion. 

u  He  stones  and  drowns  dogs,  and  he  hurts 
and  kills  cats,"  shouted  the  beasts  all  together. 

"  Mr.  Rough  kills  the  cats,"  said  Benjy,  be- 
cause he  was  frightened. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Lion,  "  we  will  send 
some  one  down  for  Mr.  Rough." 

So  they  all  waited,  and  in  a  little  while  they 
heard  the  jingling  of  Mr.  Rough's  collar,  and 
he  walked  into  the  circle  with  his  little  short 
tail  standing  right  up. 

"  Mr.  Rough,"  said  the  Lion,  "  Benjy  says 
it  is  you,  and  not  he,  who  tease  and  kill  the 
cats." 


BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND.  79 

"  Well/'  said  Mr.  Rough,  jumping  about  in 
an  angry  way,  "  am  I  to  blame  ?  Bouf,  bouf 
who  taught  me  to  do  it?  Bouf,  bouf,  it  was 
that  Boy  over  there.     Bouf  bouf !  " 

Then  Mr.  Rough  told  them  that  Benjy  had 
made  him  tease  and  worry  the  cats  and  dogs 
so  often  that  he  had  quite  learned  to  like  it. 
All  the  beasts  were  very  angry  at  this,  and 
said  that  Benjy  must  be  punished. 

The  Lion  said  that  he  did  not  know  just 
then  what  was  best  to  be  done  with  Benjy,  so 
he  asked  the  beasts  if  they  would  wait  till 
he  had  walked  around  and  thought  about  it. 
They  said  yes,  so  he  walked  around  the  circle 
seven  times,  lashing  his  tail  in  the  grandest 
way ;  then  he  took  his  seat  again  and  said  :  — 

"  Gentle  beasts,  birds  and  fishes,  you  have 
all  heard  what  this  Boy  has  done,  and  you 
would  like  him  to  be  treated  as  he  has  treated 
you.  We  will  not  abuse  Benjy,  but  I  do  not 
think  he  is  good  enough  to  stay  with  us.  We 
will  tie  a  tin-kettle  to  him  and  chase  him  from 
Beastland,  and  Mr.  Rough  shall  be  our  leader." 

This  was  no  sooner  said  than  done.  The 
Lion  gave  one  dreadful  roar  as  a  signal  for 
the  animals  to  begin  the  chase. 


80  BENJY  IN  BE  AS  TLA  ND. 

With  the  tin-kettle  fastened  to  him  and 
hurting  him  at  every  step,  and  with  Mr.  Rough 
at  his  very  heels,  Benjy  was  run  out  of  Beast- 
land.  When  he  got  to  the  edge  of  the  moon 
he  jumped  off,  Mr.  Rough  after  him. 

Down,  down,  they  went,  oh !  so  fast  and  so 
far !  Benjy  screaming  all  the  way  and  Mr. 
Rough's  collar  jingling.  They  came  to  the 
river,  and  making  all  the  noise  they  could,  in 
they  fell.  As  Benjy  sank  he  thought  of  all 
the  unkind  things  he  had  done.  He  came  to 
the  top,  but  sank  again,  and  sinking,  thought 
of  his  papa  and  mamma  and  his  little  sisters, 
and  of  his  nice  little  bed,  and  of  the  prayers 
his  dear  mamma  used  to  hear  him  say.  He 
rose  for  the  last  time,  and  saw  Nox  standing 
on  the  bank,  and  thought,  "  Now  he  has  come 
to  do  something  to  me  because  I  have  so  often 
hurt  him."  Down,  down  he  went,  as  a  lark 
flew  up  in  the  summer  sky.  The  bird  was 
almost  out  of  sight  when  a  soft  black  nose 
and  great  brown  eyes  came  close  to  his  face, 
and  a  kind,  gentle  mouth  took  hold  of  him, 
and  paddling  and  swimming  as  hard  as  he 
could,  Nox  carried  Benjy  to  the  shore  and  laid 
him  under   the  willow-tree.      There   Benjy's 


BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND.  81 

papa  found  him,  and  took  him  home,  where  he 
was  sick  for  a  long,  long  time.  When  he  got 
a  little  better  he  used  to  tell  people  of  his  visit 
to  Beastland,  but  they  always  said  it  was  only 
a  dream  he  had  during  the  fever. 

In  the  long  weeks  of  his  sickness  he  grew 
much  kinder  and  sweeter.  But  something 
happened  when  he  was  getting  well  which 
softened  his  little  heart  once  and  forever. 

While  he  was  sick,  Mr.  Eough  was  given  to 
one  of  the  servants  to  be  cared  for  and  fed 
well,  but  he  did  not  treat  him  kindly,  and  be- 
sides, the  dog  wanted  his  little  master ;  he 
wanted  to  see  him,  but  no  one  would  let  him ; 
so  poor  faithful  Mr.  Eough  got  thinner  and 
weaker  every  day,  till  at  last  he  would  not  eat 
anything  nor  even  go  out  for  a  little  walk. 

One  day  the  barn  door  was  open  and  Mr. 
Rough  thought  of  Benjy  and  crept  into  the 
house.  When  he  got  into  the  front  hall  he 
smelled  Benjy  and  ran  into  the  parlor;  and 
when  he  got  into  the  parlor  he  saw  Benjy, 
who  had  heard  the  jingle  of  his  collar  and 
who  stood  up  and  held  out  his  arms  for  him. 
Mr.  Rough  jumped  into  them,  and  then  fell 
dead  at  his  master's  feet. 


82  BENJY  IN  BEASTLAND. 

Yes,  dear  children,  Mr.  Rough  died  of  joy 
at  seeing  Benjy  again.  Benjy  felt  very  sorry 
for  him,  and  it  kept  him  from  growing  well  for 
a  long  time,  but  it  did  him  good  in  other  ways, 
for  as  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks  on  to 
Mr.  Rough's  poor  little  scratched  face,  he  felt 
as  if  he  never  could  hurt  or  be  unkind  to  any 
animal  again. 


THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE. 


ADAPTED    FROM   OUIDA. 


"  The  story-teller  must  take  life  into  himself  in  its  whole-* 
ness,  must  let  it  live  and  work  whole  and  free  within  him. 
He  must  give  it  out  free  and  unabbreviated,  and  yet  stand 
above  the  life  which  actually  is."  —  Froebel. 

In  a  little  brown  house,  far,  far  away  in 
Germany,  there  lived  a  father  and  his  chil- 
dren. There  were  ever  so  many  of  them,  — 
let  me  see,  —  Hilda,  the  dear  eldest  sister,  and 
Hans,  the  big,  strong  brother ;  then  Karl  and 
August,  and  the  baby  Marta.  Just  enough 
for  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  How  many  is 
that  ?  But  it  is  Karl  that  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  about.  He  was  nine  years  old,  a  rosy 
little  fellow,  with  big  bright  eyes  and  a  curly 
head  as  brown  as  a  ripe  nut.  The  dear  mother 
was  dead,  and  the  father  was  very  poor,  so  that 
Karl  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  sometimes 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  hungry;   but  they 


84  THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE. 

were  happy,  for  they  loved  eadh  other  very 
dearly,  and  ate  their  brown  bread  and  miLc 
without  wishing  it  were  something  nicer.  One 
afternoon  Karl  had  been  sent  on  a  long  jour- 
ney. It  was  winter  time,  and  he  had  to  run 
fast  over  the  frozen  fields  of  white  snow.  The 
night  was  coming  on,  and  he  was  hurrying 
home  with  a  great  jug  of  milk,  feeling  cold 
and  tired.  The  mountains  looked  high  and 
white  and  still  in  the  cold  moonlight,  and  the 
stars  seemed  to  say,  when  they  twinkled, 
"  Hurry,  Karl !  the  children  are  hungry."  At 
last  he  saw  a  little  brown  cottage,  with  a 
snow-laden  roof  and  a  shining  window,  through 
which  he  could  see  the  bright  firelight  dancing 
merrily,  —  for  Hilda  never  closed  the  shutters 
till  all  the  boys  were  safely  inside  the  house. 
When  he  saw  the  dear  home-light  he  ran  as 
fast  as  his  feet  could  carry  him,  burst  in  at  the 
low  front  door,  kissed  Hilda,  and  shouted :  — 

"  Oh  !  dear,  dear  Hirschvogel !  I  am  so  glad 
to  get  back  to  you  again  ;  you  are  every  bit  as 
good  as  the  summer  time." 

Now,  Hirschvogel  was  not  one  of  the  fam- 
ily, as  you  might  think,  nor  even  a  splendid 
dog,  nor  a  pony,  but  it  was  a  large,  beautiful 


THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE.  85 

porcelain  stove,  so  tall  that  it  quite  touched 
the  ceiling.  It  stood  at  the  end  of  the  room? 
shining  with  all  the  hues  of  a  peacock's  tail, 
bright  and  warm  and  beautiful ;  its  great 
golden  feet  were  shaped  like  the  claws  of  a 
lion,  and  there  was  a  golden  crown  on  the 
very  top  of  all.  You  never  have  seen  a  stove 
like  it,  for  it  was  white  where  our  stoves  are 
black,  and  it  had  flowers  and  birds  and  beau- 
tiful ladies  and  grand  gentlemen  painted  all 
over  it,  and  everywhere  it  was  brilliant  with 
gold  and  bright  colors.  It  was  a  very  old 
stove,  for  sixty  years  before,  Karl's  grand- 
father had  dug  it  up  out  of  some  broken-down 
buildings  where  he  was  working,  and,  finding 
it  strong  and  whole,  had  taken  it  home ;  and 
ever  since  then  it  had  stood  in  the  big  room, 
warming  the  children,  who  tumbled  like  little 
flowers  around  its  shining  feet.  The  grand- 
father did  not  know  it,  but  it  was  a  wonderful 
stove,  for  it  had  been  made  by  a  great  potter 
named  Hirschvogel. 

A  potter,  you  know,  children,  is  a  man  who 
makes  all  sorts  of  things,  dishes  and  tiles  and 
vases,  out  of  china  and  porcelain  and  clay. 
So   the  family  had  always   called   the  stove 


86  THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE. 

Hirschvogel,  after  the  potter,  just  as  if  it  were 
alive. 

To  the  children  the  stove  was  very  dear 
indeed.  In  summer  they  laid  a  mat  of  fresh 
moss  all  around  it,  and  dressed  it  up  with 
green  boughs  and  beautiful  wild  flowers.  In 
winter,  scampering  home  from  school  over  the 
ice  and  snow,  they  were  always  happy,  know- 
ing that  they  would  soon  be  cracking  nuts  or 
roasting  chestnuts  in  the  heat  and  light  of  the 
dear  old  stove.  All  the  children  loved  it,  but 
Karl  even  more  than  the  rest,  and  he  used  to 
say  to  himself,  "  When  I  grow  up  I  will  make 
just  such  things  too,  and  then  I  will  set  Hirsch- 
vogel  up  in  a  beautiful  room  that  I  will  build 
myself.  That 's  what  I  will  do  when  I  'm  a 
man." 

After  Karl  had  eaten  his  supper,  this  cold 
night,  he  lay  down  on  the  floor  by  the  stove, 
the  children  all  around  him,  on  the  big  wolf- 
skin rug.  With  some  sticks  of  charcoal  he 
was  drawing  pictures  for  them  of  what  he  had 
seen  all  day.  When  the  children  had  looked 
enough  at  one  picture,  he  would  sweep  it  out 
with  his  elbow  and  make  another  —  faces,  and 
dogs'  heads,  and  men  on  sleds,  and  old  women 


THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE.  87 

in  their  furs,  and  pine-trees,  and  all  sorts  of 
animals.  When  they  had  been  playing  in  this 
way  for  some  time,  Hilda,  the  eldest  sister, 
said :  — 

"  It  i§  time  for  you  all  to  go  to  bed,  children. 
Father  is  very  late  to-night ;  you  must  not  sit 
up  for  him." 

"  Oh,  just  five  minutes  more,  dear  Hilda," 
they  begged.  "  Hirschvogel  is  so  warm ;  the 
beds  are  never  so  warm  as  he  is." 

In  the  midst  of  their  chatter  and  laughter 
the  door  opened,  and  in  blew  the  cold  wind 
and  snow  from  outside.  Their  father  had 
come  home.  He  seemed  very  tired,  and  came* 
slowly  to  his  chair.  At  last  he  said,  "  Take 
the  children  to  bed,  daughter." 

Karl  stayed,  curled  up  before  the  stove. 
When  Hilda  came  back,  the  father  said  sadly  : 

"  Hilda,  I  have  sold  Hirschvogel !  I  have 
sold  it  to  a  traveling  peddler,  for  I  need  money 
very  much  ;  the  winter  is  so  cold  and  the  chil- 
dren are  so  hungry.  The  man  will  take  it  away 
to-morrow." 

Hilda  gave  a  cry.  "  Oh,  father  !  the  chil- 
dren, in  the  middle  of  winter  !  "  and  she  turned 
as  white  as  the  snow  outside. 


88  THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE. 

Karl  lay  half  blind  with  sleep,  staring  at  his 
father.  "  It  can't  be  true,  it  can't  be  true  !  " 
he  cried.  "  You  are  making  fun,  father."  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  skies  must  fall  if 
Hirschvogel  were  taken  away. 

"Yes,"  said  the  father,  "you  will  find  it 
true  enough.  The  peddler  has  paid  half  the 
money  to-night,  and  will  pay  me  the  other  half 
to-morrow  when  he  packs  up  the  stove  and 
takes  it  away." 

"Oh,  father  !  dear  father  !  "  cried  poor  little 
Karl,  "  you  cannot  mean  what  you  say.  Send 
our  stove  away  ?  We  shall  all  die  in  the  dark 
>and  cold.  Listen  !  I  will  go  and  try  to  get 
work  to-morrow.  I  will  ask  them  to  let  me 
cut  ice  or  make  the  paths  through  the  snow. 
There  must  be  something  I  can  do,  and  I 
will  beg  the  people  we  owe  money  to,  to  wait. 
They  are  all  neighbors ;  they  will  be  patient. 
But  sell  Hirschvogel !  Oh,  never,  never,  never  ! 
Give  the  money  back  to  the  man." 

The  father  was  so  sorry  for  his  little  boy 
that  he  could  not  speak.  He  looked  sadly  at 
him;  then  took  the  lamp  that  stood  on  the 
table,  and  left  the  room. 

Hilda    knelt    down    and  tried    to  comfort 


THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE.  89 

Karl,  but  he  was  too  unhappy  to  listen.  "  I 
shall  stay  here/'  was  all  he  said,  and  he  lay 
there  all  the  night  long.  The  lamp  went  out ; 
the  rats  came  and  ran  across  the  room ;  the 
room  grew  colder  and  colder.  Karl  did  not 
move,  but  lay  with  his  face  down  on  the  floor 
by  the  lovely  rainbow-colored  stove.  When 
it  grew  light,  his  sister  came  down  with  a  lamp 
in  her  hand  to  begin  her  morning  work.  She 
crept  up  to  him,  and  laid  her  cheek  on  his 
softly,  and  said  :  — 

"  Dear  Karl,  you  must  be  frozen.  Karl  \ 
do  look  up  ;  do  speak." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  poor  Karl,  "  it  will  never  be 
warm  again." 

Soon  after  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 
A  strange  voice  called  through  the  keyhole,  — 

"  Let  me  in  !  quick !  there  is  no  time  to 
lose.  More  snow  like  this  and  the  roads  will 
all  be  blocked.  Let  me  in  !  Do  you  hear  ? 
I  am  come  to  take  the  great  stove." 

Hilda  unfastened  the  door.  The  man  came 
in  at  once,  and  began  to  wrap  the  stove  in  a 
great  many  wrappings,  and  carried  it  out  into 
the  snow,  where  an  ox-cart  stood  in  waiting. 
In  another  moment  it  was  gone ;  gone  forever ! 


90  THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE. 

Karl  leaned  against  the  wall,  his  tears  falling 
like  rain  down  his  pale  cheeks. 

An  old  neighbor  came  by  just  then,  and, 
seeing  the  boy,  said  to  him  :  "  Child,  is  it 
true  your  father  is  selling  that  big.  painted 
stove?" 

Karl  nodded  his  head,  and  began  to  sob 
again.     "  I  love  it !    I  love  it !  "  he  said. 

"  Well,  if  I  were  you  I  would  do  better 
than  cry.  I  would  go  after  it  when  I  grew 
bigger,"  said  the  neighbor,  trying  to  cheer 
him  up  a  little.  "  Don't  cry  so  loud  ;  you 
will  see  your  stove  again  some  day,"  and  the 
old  man  went  away,  leaving  a  new  idea  in 
Karl's  head. 

"  Go  after  it,"  the  old  man  had  said.  Karl 
thought,  "  Why  not  go  with  it  ?  "  He  loved  it 
better  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  even 
better  than  Hilda.  He  ran  off  quickly  after 
the  cart  which  was  carrying  the  dear  Hirsch« 
vogel  to  the  station.  How  he  managed  it  he 
never  knew  very  well  himself,  but  it  was  certain 
that  when  the  freight  train  moved  away  from 
the  station  Karl  was  hidden  behind  the  stove. 
It  was  very  dark,  but  he  was  n't  frightened. 
He  was  close  beside  Hirschvogel,  but  he  wanted 


THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE.  91 

to  be  closer  still ;  he  meant  to  get  inside  the 
stove.  He  set  to  work  like  a  little  mouse  to 
make  a  hole  in  the  straw  and  hay.  He 
gnawed  and  nibbled,  and  pushed  and  pulled, 
making  a  hole  where  he  guessed  that  the  door 
might  be.  At  last  he  found  it ;  he  slipped 
through  it,  as  he  had  so  often  done  at  home 
for  fun,  and  curled  himself  up.  He  drew  the 
hay  and  straw  together  carefully,  and  fixed 
the  ropes,  so  that  no  one  could  have  dreamed 
that  a  little  mouse  had  been  at  them.  Safe 
inside  his  dear  Hirschvogel,  he  went  as  fast 
asleep  as  if  he  were  in  his  own  little  bed  at 
home.  The  train  rumbled  on  in  its  heavy, 
slow  way,  and  Karl  slept  soundly  for  a  long 
time.  When  he  awoke  the  darkness  fright- 
ened him,  but  he  felt  the  cold  sides  of  Hirsch- 
vogel, and  said  softly,  "  Take  care  of  me,  dear 
Hirschvogel,  oh,  please  take  care  of  me  !  " 

Every  time  the  train  stopped,  and  he  heard 
the  banging,  stamping,  and  shouting,  his  heart 
seemed  to  jump  up  into  his  mouth.  When  the 
people  came  to  lift  the  stove  out,  would  they 
find  him  ?  and  if  they  did  find  him,  would 
they  kill  him  ?  The  thought,  too,  of  Hilda, 
kept  tugging  at  his  heart  now  and  then,  but 


92  THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE. 

he  said  to  himself,  "  If  I  can  take  Hirschvo- 
gel  back  to  her,  how  pleased  she  will  be,  and 
how  she  will  clap  her  hands  !  "  He  was  not 
at  all  selfish  in  his  love  for  Hirschvogel ;  he 
wanted  it  for  them  at  home  quite  as  much  as 
for  himself.  That  was  what  he  kept  thinking 
of  all  the  way  in  the  darkness  and  stillness 
which  lasted  so  long.  At  last  the  train 
stopped,  and  awoke  him  from  a  half  sleep. 
Karl  felt  the  stove  lifted  by  some  men,  who 
carried  it  to  a  cart,  and  then  they  started 
again  on  the  journey,  up  hill  and  down,  for 
what  seemed  miles  and  miles.  Where  they 
were  going  Karl  had  no  idea.  Finally  the 
cart  stopped ;  then  it  seemed  as  though  they 
were  carrying  the  stove  up  some  stairs.  The 
men  rested  sometimes,  and  then  moved  on 
again,  and  their  feet  went  so  softly  he  thought 
they  must  be  walking  on  thick  carpets.  By 
and  by  the  stove  was  set  down  again,  happily 
for  Karl,  for  he  felt  as  though  he  should 
scream,  or  do  something  to  make  known  that 
he  was  there.  Then  the  wrappings  were  taken 
off,  and  he  heard  a  voice  say,  "  What  a  beau- 
tiful, beautiful  stove ! " 

Next  some  one  turned  the  round  handle  of 


"'OH,  LET  ME  STAY,  PLEASE  LET  ME  STAY'"    (page 93) 


THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE.  93 

the  brass  door,  and  poor  little  Karl's  heart 
stood  still. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  the  man.  "  A  live 
child!" 

Then  Karl  sprang  out  of  the  stove  and  f el] 
at  the  feet  of  the  man  who  had  spoken. 

"  Oh,  let  me  stay,  please  let  me  stay  !  "  he 
said.  "I  have  come  all  the  way  with  my 
darling  Hirschvogel ! " 

The  man  answered  kindly,  "Poor  little 
child  !  tell  me  how  you  came  to  hide  in  the 
stove.     Do  not  be  afraid.     I  am  the  king." 

Karl  was  too  much  in  earnest  to  be  afraid ; 
he  was  so  glad,  so  glad  it  was  the  king,  for 
kings  must  be  always  kind,  he  thought. 

"  Oh,  dear  king  ! "  he  said  with  a  trembling 
voice,  "Hirschvogel  was  ours,  and  we  have 
loved  it  all  our  lives,  and  father  sold  it,  and 
when  I  saw  that  it  really  did  go  from  us  I 
said  to  myself  that  I  would  go  with  it ;  and  I 
do  beg  you  to  let  me  live  with  it,  and  I  will  go 
out  every  morning  and  cut  wood  for  it  and  for 
all  your  other  stoves,  if  only  you  will  let  me 
stay  beside  it.  No  one  has  ever  fed  it  with 
wood  but  me  since  I  grew  big  enough,  and  it 
loves  me ;   it  does  indeed !  "     And  then  he 


94  THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE. 

lifted  up  his  little  pale  face  to  the  young  king, 
who  saw  that  great  tears  were  running  down 
his  cheeks. 

"  Can't  I  stay  with  Hirschvogel  ? "  he 
pleaded. 

"  Wait  a  little/'  said  the  king.  "  What  do 
you  want  to  be  when  you  are  a  man  ?  Do  you 
want  to  be  a  wood-chopper  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  be  a  painter/'  cried  Karl.  "  I 
want  to  be  what  Hirschvogel  was.  I  mean  the 
potter  that  made  my  Hirschvogel." 

"  I  understand/'  answered  the  king,  and  he 
looked  down  at  the  child,  and  smiled.  "  Get 
up,  my  little  man/'  he  said  in  a  kind  voice ; 
"  I  will  let  you  stay  with  your  Hirschvogel. 
You  shall  stay  here,  and  you  shall  be  taught 
to  be  a  painter,  but  you  must  grow  up  very 
good,  and  when  you  are  twenty-one  years  old, 
if  you  have  done  well,  then  I  will  give  you 
back  your  beautiful  stove."  Then  he  smiled 
again  and  stretched  out  his  hand.  Karl  threw 
his  two  arms  about  the  king's  knees  and 
kissed  his  feet,  and  then  all  at  once  he  was 
so  tired  and  so  glad  and  hungry  and  happy, 
that  he  fainted  quite  away  on  the  floor. 

Then  the  king  had  a  letter  written  to  Karl's 


THE  PORCELAIN  STOVE.  95 

father,  telling  him  that  Karl  had  drawn  him 
some  beautiful  charcoal  pictures,  and  that  he 
liked  them  so  much  he  was  going  to  take  care 
of  him  until  he  was  old  enough  to  paint  won- 
derful stoves  like  Hirschvogel.  And  he  did 
take  care  of  him  for  a  long  time,  and  when 
Karl  grew  older,  he  often  went  for  a  few  days 
to  his  old  home,  where  his  father  still  lives. 

In  the  little  brown  house  stands  Hirsch- 
vogel, tall  and  splendid,  with  its  peacock  colors 
as  beautiful  as  ever,  —  the  king's  present  to 
Hilda ;  and  Karl  never  goes  home  without 
going  into  the  great  church  and  giving  his 
thanks  to  God,  who  blessed  his  strange  win=> 
ter's  journey  in  the  great  porcelain  stove. 


THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOOD. 


"Nature  and  life  speak  very  early  to  man."  —  Froebel0 

A  great  many  years  ago  three  little  girls 
lived  in  an  old-fashioned  house  in  the  East. 
They  had  a  very  lovely  home,  and  a  kind 
father  and  mother,  who  tried  to  make  them 
happy.  All  through  the  summer  they  used  to 
roam  over  the  hills  and  fields,  catching  butter- 
flies, watching  the  birds  and  bees  at  work,  and 
studying  the  flowers  and  trees  in  the  beautiful 
meadows  and  woods.  Then  when  winter  came, 
and  the  days  grew  cold,  they  went  to  school  ,• 
and  in  the  evening,  when  the  fire  was  burning 
brightly,  they  read  and  studied  in  books  about 
all  they  had  seen  in  the  summer. 

Besides  all  these  lovely  things,  and  perhaps 
best  of  all,  they  had  a  very  large  yard  to  play 
in,  so  large  that  it  took  up  a  whole  block,  and 
seemed  like  a  little  farm  in  the  middle  of  tk( 


THE  BABES  IN   THE    WOOD.  97 

town.  There  was  a  lovely  lawn  and  flower 
beds;  a  vegetable  garden,  barnyard  and  stable ; 
and  an  orchard  where  all  kinds  of  fruit  trees 
grew,  apple,  peach,  pear,  and  many  others. 
A  cow  lived  down  in  the  meadows  of  clover, 
and  old  Bob,  the  horse,  was  sometimes  turned 
out  to  pasture  there.  But  nicest  of  all,  there 
was  the  wood  yard.  You  must  remember 
that  every  winter,  where  these  little  girls  lived, 
the  snow  fell,  and  lay  so  deep  on  the  roads 
that  no  one  could  bring  in  wood  from  the  for- 
est, and  without  it  all  the  people  would  have 
frozen  in  their  cold  homes. 

So  every  September  the  gates  were  thrown 
wide  open,  and  into  the  yard  load  after  load 
of  wood  was  drawn  and  piled  up  under  the 
shed.  Then,  when  it  was  too  cold  to  play  out 
on  the  hills,  the  little  girls  used  to  have  a 
fine  time  in  the  yard,  piling  up  the  wood, 
making  beds,  tables,  chairs,  and  stoves  of  the 
sticks  that  had  once  been  the  waving  branches 
and  strong,  sturdy  trunks  of  trees. 

Toward  spring  they  often  found  a  strange 
yellow  powder  on  the  ground  under  the  wood. 
At  first  they  played  with  it,  calling  it  flour,  and 
made  pies  and  cakes  out  of  it.     But  at  last 


98      THE  BABES  IN   THE    WOOD. 

they  began  to  wonder  where  the  flour  came 
from,  and  after  watching  and  studying  a  long 
time  this  is  what  they  found  out. 

But  first  I  must  tell  you  that  all  the  time 
the  three  little  girls  were  happy  and  busy  in 
this  beautiful  place,  they  were  not  the  only 
family  there.  There  were  the  robins'  children, 
whose  mammas  were  trying  to  make  them 
good  and  happy  too.  There  were  the  beetles' 
children,  the  ants'  children,  and  families  of 
toads,  butterflies,  and  spiders.  And  while  the 
three  little  girls  were  playing  with  the  sticks 
of  wood,  there  lay,  tucked  snugly  away  inside 
of  them,  many  families  of  children,  warm  and 
safe  in  their  wooden  home. 

Now  I  want  the  smallest  of  you  little  chil- 
dren to  hold  up  her  hand.  How  small  it  is 
compared  with  your  body !  Now  let  us  see 
the  little  finger  on  that  hand, —  it  is  smaller 
still ;  and  now  look  at  the  nail  on  that  finger : 
the  brothers  and  sisters  of  one  of  these  families 
were  altogether  about  as  large  as  that  tiny  naiL 
Their  mamma  was  a  wasp,  with  light,  gauzy 
wings  and  a  strong  body  with  a  long  sting  on 
the  end  of  it,  about  the  length  of  a  needle. 
With  this  little  sting  or  saw,  as  it  really  was> 


THE  BABES  IN  THE   WOOD.  99 

she  had  bored  many  holes  in  the  wood  when 
it  was  still  a  green  tree,  and  at  the  bottom  of 
each  hole  she  had  laid  a  tiny  egg.  There  it 
lay  for  a  long  time,  all  white  and  still,  until 
one  day  it  cracked  open,  and  out  came  a  funny 
little  white  grub,  with  six  short  white  feet,  and 
black  jaws  very  strong  and  large  for  such  a 
tiny  thing.  This  little  creature  had  never  had 
anything  to  eat,  and  as  it  was  very  hungry  in- 
deed, it  fell  to  eating  —  what  do  you  think  ? 
Wood  !  —  its  own  house  !  You  would  n't  like 
a  stick  of  wood  for  your  breakfast,  I  know, 
but  the  wasp-mamma  knew  what  her  little 
grub-children  would  want,  so  she  put  them  in 
just  the  right  place;  for  they  couldn't  have 
eaten  anything  else.  And  the  hungry  little 
grubs  ate  and  ate  and  ate  as  long  as  they  could, 
pushing  away  from  the  hole  the  part  they  did 
not  want,  and  this  fell  upon  the  ground  as  the 
strange  yellow  powder  the  children  found  in 
the  wood-yard,  every  spring. 

And  so,  while  the  little  girls  were  playing 
away  in  the  sunshine  the  little  grubs  were 
eating  away  in  the  wood,  until  at  last,  one  day, 
they  grew  satisfied,  and  one  after  another  went 
to  sleep.     There  they  lay  in  their  dark  homes, 


100     THE  BABES  IN   THE    WOOD. 

fast  asleep,  through  long  weeks,  while  the  snow 
was  melting  and  the  grass  coming  up,  and  the 
birds  and  bees  beginning  their  summer  work 
again  ;  until  one  day  these  lazy  little  creatures, 
that  had  never  done  anything  in  their  lives  but 
eat  and  sleep,  woke  up  and  began  to  stretch 
themselves.  But  what  had  happened  to  them? 
Instead  of  the  soft  white  bodies  they  had  gone 
to  sleep  with,  they  now  had  black  ones  and 
four  gauzy  wings ;  while  six  slender  legs  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  six  short  ones.  There 
were  still  the  strong  black  jaws  to  do  all  need- 
ful work  with,  and  in  addition,  delicate  mouth- 
parts,  for  their  food  was  now  to  be  the  honey 
from  flowers.  In  fact,  they  looked  and  were 
just  like  their  mamma,  the  gauzy  wasp.  One 
after  another  they  crept  to  the  end  of  the 
passage  that  led  from  their  dark  homes  to  the 
bright  world  without.  They  stood  one  minute 
at  the  little  dark  hole,  and  then,  spreading 
their  wings,  flitted  out  into  the  beautiful  world 
of  sunshine  and  flowers. 


THE  STOKY   OF  CHKISTMAS. 


"A  great  spiritual   efficiency  lies  in    story-telling." — 

f?ROEBEL. 

Christmas  Day,  you  know,  dear  children, 
is  Christ's  day,  Christ's  birthday,  and  I  want 
to  tell  you  why  we  love  it  so  much,  and  why 
we  try  to  make  every  one  happy  when  it 
comes  each  year. 

A  long,  long  time  ago  —  more  than  nine- 
teen hundred  years  —  the  baby  Christ  was  born 
on  Christmas  Day :  a  baby  so  wonderful  and 
so  beautiful,  who  grew  up  to  be  a  man  so 
wise,  so  good,  so  patient  and  sweet,  that,  every 
year,  the  people  who  know  about  him  love 
him  better  and  better,  and  are  more  and  more 
glad  when  his  birthday  comes  again.  You  see 
that  he  must  have  been  very  good  and  won- 
derful ;  for  people  have  always  remembered  his 
birthday,  and  kept  it  lovingly  for  nineteen 
hundred  years. 


102  THE  STORY  OF  CHRISTMAS. 

He  was  born,  long  years  ago,  in  a  land  fa?, 
far  away  across  the  seas. 

Before  the  baby  Christ  was  born,  Mary,  his 
mother,  had  to  make  a  long  journey  with  her 
husband,  Joseph.  They  made  this  journey  to 
be  taxed  or  counted  ;  for  in  those  days  this 
could  not  be  done  in  the  town  where  people 
happened  to  live,  but  they  must  be  numbered 
in  the  place  where  they  were  born. 

In  that  far-off  time,  the  only  way  of  travel- 
ing was  on  a  horse,  or  a  camel,  or  a  good, 
patient  donkey.  Camels  and  horses  cost  a 
great  deal  of  money,  and  Mary  was  very  poor ; 
so  she  rode  on  a  quiet,  safe  donkey,  while 
Joseph  walked  by  her  side,  leading  him  and 
leaning  on  his  stick.  Mary  was  very  young, 
and  beautiful,  I  think,  but  Joseph  was  a  great 
deal  older  than  she. 

People  dress  nowadays,  in  those  distant 
countries,  just  as  they  did  so  many  years  ago, 
so  we  know  that  Mary  must  have  worn  a  long, 
thick  dress,  falling  all  about  her  in  heavy  folds, 
and  that  she  had  a  soft  white  veil  over  her 
head  and  neck,  and  across  her  face.  Mary 
lived  in  Nazareth,  and  the  journey  they  were 
making  was  to  Bethlehem,  many  miles  away. 


THE  STORY  OF  CHRISTMAS.  103 

They  were  a  long  time  traveling,  I  am  sure ; 
for  donkeys  are  slow,  though  they  are  so  care- 
ful, and  Mary  must  have  been  very  tired 
before  they  came  to  the  end  of  their  journey. 

They  had  traveled  all  day,  and  it  was 
almost  dark  when  they  came  near  to  Bethle- 
hem, to  the  town  where  the  baby  Christ  was 
to  be  born.  There  was  the  place  they  were 
to  stay,  —  a  kind  of  inn,  or  lodging-house, 
but  not  at  all  like  those  you  know  about. 

They  have  them  to-day  in  that  far-off  coun- 
try, just  as  they  built  them  so  many  years  ago. 

It  was  a  low,  flat-roofed,  stone  building, 
with  no  window  and  only  one  large  door. 
There  were  no  nicely  furnished  bedrooms 
inside,  and  no  soft  white  beds  for  the  tired 
travelers;  there  were  only  little  places  built 
into  the  stones  of  the  wall,  something  like 
the  berths  on  steamboats  nowadays,  and  each 
traveler  brought  his  own  bedding.  No  pretty 
garden  was  in  front  of  the  inn,  for  the  road 
ran  close  to  the  very  door,  so  that  its  dust  lay 
upon  the  doorsill.  All  around  the  house,  to 
a  high,  rocky  hill  at  the  back,  a  heavy  stone 
fence  was  built,  so  that  the  people  and  the 
animals  inside  might  be  kept  safe. 


104  THE  STORY  OF  CHRISTMAS. 

Mary  and  Joseph  could  not  get  very  near 
the  inn ;  for  the  whole  road  in  front  was  filled 
with  camels  and  donkeys  and  sheep  and  cows, 
while  a  great  many  men  were  going  to  and  f  ro, 
taking  care  of  the  animals.  Some  of  these 
people  had  come  to  Bethlehem  to  be  counted, 
as  Mary  and  Joseph  had  done,  and  others 
were  staying  for  the  night,  on  their  way  to 
Jerusalem,  a  large  city  a  little  farther  on. 

The  yard  was  filled,  too,  with  camels  and 
sheep ;  and  men  were  lying  on  the  ground  be- 
side them,  resting,  and  watching,  and  keeping 
them  safe.  The  inn  was  so  full  and  the  yard 
was  so  full  of  people,  that  there  was  no  room 
for  anybody  else,  and  the  keeper  had  to  take 
Joseph  and  Mary  through  the  house  and  back 
to  the  high  hill,  where  they  found  another 
place  that  was  used  for  a  stable.  This  had 
only  a  door  and  a  front,  and  deep  caves  were 
behind,  stretching  far  into  the  rocks. 

This  was  the  spot  where  Christ  was  born. 
Think  how  poor  a  place  !  —  but  Mary  was  glad 
to  be  there,  after  all ;  and  when  the  Christ- 
child  came,  he  was  like  other  babies,  and  had 
so  lately  come  from  heaven  that  he  was  happy 
everywhere. 


THE  STORY  OF  CHRISTMAS.  105 

There  were  mangers  all  around  the  cave, 
where  the  cattle  and  sheep  were  fed,  and  great 
heaps  of  hay  and  straw  were  lying  on  the 
floor.  Then,  I  think,  there  were  brown-eyed 
cows  and  oxen  there,  and  quiet,  woolly  sheep, 
and  perhaps  even  some  dogs  that  had  come 
in  to  take  care  of  the  sheep. 

And  there  in  the  cave,  by  and  by,  the  won- 
derful baby  came,  and  they  wrapped  him  up 
and  laid  him  in  a  manger. 

All  the  stars  in  the  sky  shone  brightly 
that  night,  for  they  knew  the  Christ-child  was 
born,  and  the  angels  in  heaven  sang  together 
for  joy.  The  angels  knew  about  the  lovely 
child,  and  were  glad  that  he  had  come  to  help 
the  people  on  earth  to  be  good. 

There  lay  the  beautiful  baby,  with  a  manger 
for  his  bed,  and  oxen  and  sheep  all  sleeping 
quietly  round  him.  His  mother  watched  him 
and  loved  him,  and  by  and  by  many  people 
came  to  see  him,  for  they  had  heard  that  a 
wonderful  child  was  to  be  born  in  Bethlehem. 
All  the  people  in  the  inn  visited  him,  and 
even  the  shepherds  left  their  flocks  in  the  fields 
and  sought  the  child  and  his  mother. 

But  the  baby  was  very  tiny,  and  could  not 


106  THE  STORY  OF  CHRISTMAS. 

talk  any  more  than  any  other  tiny  child,  so  he 
lay  in  his  mother's  lap,  or  in  the  manger,  and 
only  looked  at  the  people.  So  after  they  had 
seen  him  and  loved  him,  they  went  away  again. 

After  a  time,  when  the  baby  had  grown 
larger,  Mary  took  him  back  to  Nazareth,  and 
there  he  lived  and  grew  up. 

And  he  grew  to  be  such  a  sweet,  wise,  lov- 
ing boy,  such  a  tender,  helpful  man,  and  he 
said  so  many  good  and  beautiful  things,  that 
every  one  loved  him  who  knew  him.  Many 
of  the  things  he  said  are  in  the  Bible,  you 
know,  and  a  great  many  beautiful  stories  of 
the  things  he  used  to  do  while  he  was  on 
earth. 

He  loved  little  children  like  you  very  much, 
and  often  used  to  take  them  up  in  his  arms 
and  talk  to  them. 

And  this  is  the  reason  we  love  Christmas 
Day  so  much,  and  try  to  make  everybody 
happy  when  it  comes  around  each  year.  This 
is  the  reason :  because  Christ,  who  was  born 
on  Christmas  Day,  has  helped  us  all  to  be  good 
so  many,  many  times,  and  because  he  was  the 
best  Christmas  present  the  great  world  ever 
had! 


THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 


"  The  story  brings  forward  other  people,  other  relations, 
other  times  and  places,  other  and  even  quite  different  forms  ; 
notwithstanding  this  fact,  the  auditor  seeks  his  image  there." 
—  Froebel. 

Nearly  three  hundred  years  ago,  a  great 
many  of  the  people  in  England  were  very  un- 
happy because  their  king  would  not  let  them 
pray  to  God  as  they  liked.  The  king  said 
they  must  use  the  same  prayers  that  he  did ; 
and  if  they  would  not  do  this,  they  were  often 
thrown  into  prison,  or  perhaps  driven  away 
from  home. 

"  Let  us  go  away  from  this  country,"  said 
the  unhappy  Englishmen  to  each  other ;  and 
so  they  left  their  homes,  and  went  far  off  to 
a  country  called  Holland.  It  was  about  this 
time  that  they  began  to  call  themselves  u  Pil- 
grims." Pilgrims,  you  know,  are  people  who 
are  always  traveling  to  find  something  they 


108       THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

love,  or  to  find  a  land  where  they  can  be  hap« 
pier ;  and  these  English  men  and  women  were 
journeying,  they  said,  "from  place  to  place, 
toward  heaven,  their  dearest  country.' 

In  Holland,  the  Pilgrims  were  quiet  and 
happy  for  a  while,  but  they  were  very  poor ; 
and  when  the  children  began  to  grow  up,  they 
were  not  like  English  children,  but  talked 
Dutch,  like  the  little  ones  of  Holland,  and 
some  grew  naughty  and  did  not  want  to  go 
to  church  any  more. 

"This  will  never  do,"  said  the  Pilgrim 
fathers  arid  mothers ;  so  after  much  talking 
and  thinking  and  writing  they  made  up  their 
minds  to  come  here  to  America.  They  hired 
two  vessels,  called  the  Mayflower  and  the 
Speedwell,  to  take  them  across  the  sea ;  but 
the  Speedwell  was  not  a  strong  ship,  and  the 
captain  had  to  take  her  home  again  before  she 
had  gone  very  far. 

The  Mayflower  went  back,  too.  Part  of  the 
Speedwell's  passengers  were  given  to  her,  and 
then  she  started  alone  across  the  great  ocean. 

There  were  one  hundred  people  on  board,  — • 
mothers  and  fathers,  brothers  and  sisters  and 
little  children0     They  were  very  crowded  j  it 


THE  FIRST   THANKSGIVING  DAY.      109 

was  cold  and  uncomfortable;  the  sea  was 
rough,  and  pitched  the  Mayflower  about,  and 
they  were  two  months  sailing  over  the  water. 

The  children  cried  many  times  on  the  jour- 
ney, and  wished  they  had  never  come  on  the 
tiresome  ship  that  rocked  them  so  hard,  and 
would  not  let  them  keep  still  a  minute. 

But  they  had  one  pretty  plaything  to  amuse 
them,  for  in  the  middle  of  the  great  ocean  a 
Pilgrim  baby  was  born,  and  they  called  him 
"  Oceanus,"  for  his  birthplace.  When  the 
children  grew  so  tired  that  they  were  cross  and 
fretful,  Oceanus'  mother  let  them  come  and 
play  with  him,  and  that  always  brought  smiles 
and  happy  faces  back  again. 

At  last  the  Mayflower  came  in  sight  of  land ; 
but  if  the  children  had  been  thinking  of  grass 
and  flowers  and  birds,  they  must  have  been 
very  much  disappointed,  for  the  month  was 
cold  November,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  rocks  and  sand  and  hard  bare  ground. 

Some  of  the  Pilgrim  fathers,  with  brave 
Captain  Myles  Standish  at  their  head,  went  on 
shore  to  see  if  they  could  find  any  houses  oi 
white  people.  But  they  only  saw  some  wild 
Indians,  who  ran  away  from  them,  and  found 


110       THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

some  Indian  huts  and  some  corn  buried  in 
holes  in  the  ground.  They  went  to  and  fro 
from  the  ship  three  times,  till  by  and  by  they 
found  a  pretty  place  to  live,  where  there  were 
"  fields  and  little  running  brooks." 

Then  at  last  all  the  tired  Pilgrims  landed 
from  the  ship  on  a  spot  now  called  Plymouth 
Rock,  and  the  first  house  was  begun  on  Christ- 
mas Day.  But  when  I  tell  you  how  sick  they 
were  and  how  much  they  suffered  that  first 
winter,  you  will  be  very  sad  and  sorry  for 
them.  The  weather  was  cold,  the  snow  fell 
fast  and  thick,  the  wind  was  icy,  and  the  Pil- 
grim fathers  had  no  one  to  help  them  cut 
down  the  trees  and  build  their  church  and 
their  houses. 

The  Pilgrim  mothers  helped  all  they  could ; 
but  they  were  tired  with  the  long  journey, 
and  cold,  and  hungry  too,  for  no  one  had  the 
right  kind  of  food  to  eat,  nor  even  enough 
of  it. 

So  first  one  was  taken  sick,  and  then  another, 
till  half  of  them  were  in  bed  at  the  same  time. 
Brave  Myles  Standish  and  the  other  soldiers 
nursed  them  as  well  as  they  knew  how ;  but 
before  spring  came  half  of  the  people  died 


THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING  DAY.      Ill 

and  had  gone  at  last  to  "  heaven,  their  dear- 
est country." 

But  by  and  by  the  sun  shone  more  brightly, 
the  snow  melted,  the  leaves  began  to  grow, 
and  sweet  spring  had  come  again. 

Some  friendly  Indians  had  visited  the  Pil- 
grims during  the  winter,  and  Captain  Myles 
Standish,  with  several  of  his  men,  had  returned 
the  visit. 

One  of  the  kind  Indians  was  called  Squanto, 
and  he  came  to  stay  with  the  Pilgrims,  and 
showed  them  how  to  plant  their  corn,  and  their 
pease  and  wheat  and  barley. 

When  the  summer  came  and  the  days  were 
long  and  bright,  the  Pilgrim  children  were 
very  happy,  and  they  thought  Plymouth  a 
lovely  place  indeed.  All  kinds  of  beautiful 
wild  flowers  grew  at  their  doors,  there  were 
hundreds  of  birds  and  butterflies,  and  the 
great  pine  woods  were  always  cool  and  shady 
when  the  sun  was  too  bright. 

When  it  was  autumn  the  fathers  gathered 
the  barley  and  wheat  and  corn  that  they  had 
planted,  and  found  that  it  had  grown  so  well 
that  they  would  have  quite  enough  for  the 
long  winter  that  was  coming. 


112       THE  FIRST   THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

"  Let  us  thank  God  for  it  all/'  they  said. 
"  It  is  He  who  has  made  the  sun  shine  and  the 
rain  fall  and  the  corn  grow."  So  they  thanked 
God  in  their  homes  and  in  their  little  church ; 
the  fathers  and  the  mothers  and  the  children 
thanked  Him. 

"  Then/'  said  the  Pilgrim  mothers,  "  let  ufc 
have  a  great  Thanksgiving  party,  and  invite 
the  friendly  Indians,  and  all  rejoice  together." 

So  they  had  the  first  Thanksgiving  party, 
and  a  grand  one  it  was  !  Four  men  went  out 
shooting  one  whole  day,  and  brought  back  so 
many  wild  ducks  and  geese  and  great  wild 
turkeys  that  there  was  enough  for  almost  a 
week.  There  was  deer  meat  also,  of  course, 
for  there  were  plenty  of  fine  deer  in  the  forest. 
Then  the  Pilgrim  mothers  made  the  corn  and 
wheat  into  bread  and  cakes,  and  they  had  fish 
and  clams  from  the  sea  besides. 

The  friendly  Indians  all  came  with .  their 
chief  Massasoit.  Every  one  came  that  was 
invited,  and  more,  I  dare  say,  for  there  were 
ninety  of  them  altogether. 

They  brought  five  deer  with  them,  that  the) 
gave  to  the  Pilgrims  ;  and  they  must  have  liked 
the  party  very  much,  for  they  stayed  three  days 


THE  FIRST   THANKSGIVING  DAY.      113 

Kind  as  the  Indians  were,  you  would  have 
been  very  much  frightened  if  you  had  seen 
them ;  and  the  baby  Oceanus,  who  was  a  year 
old  then,  began  to  cry  at  first  whenever  they 
came  near  him. 

They  were  dressed  in  deerskins,  and  some 
of  them  had  the  furry  coat  of  a  wild  cat  hang- 
ing on  their  arms.  Their  loug  black  hair  fell 
loose  on  their  shoulders,  and  was  trimmed  with 
feathers  or  fox-tails.  They  had  their  faces 
painted  in  all  kinds  of  strange  ways,  some  with 
black  stripes  as  broad  as  your  finger  all  up 
and  down  them.  But  whatever  they  wore,  it 
was  their  very  best,  and  they  had  put  it  on  for 
the  Thanksgiving  party. 

Each  meal,  before  they  ate  anything,  the 
Pilgrims  and  the  Indians  thanked  God  to- 
gether for  all  his  goodness.  The  Indians 
sang  and  danced  in  the  evenings,  and  every 
day  they  ran  races  and  played  all  kinds  of 
games  with  the  children. 

Then  sometimes  the  Pilgrims  with  their 
guns,  and  the  Indians  with  their  bows  and  ar- 
rows,  would  see  who  could  shoot  farthest  and 
best.  So  they  were  glad  and  merry  and  thank- 
ful for  three  whole  days. 


114       THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

The  Pilgrim  mothers  and  fathers  had  been 
sick  and  sad  many  times  since  they  landed 
from  the  Mayflower;  they  had  worked  very 
hard,  often  had  not  had  enough  to  eat,  and 
were  mournful  indeed  when  their  friends  died 
and  left  them.  But  now  they  tried  to  forget 
all  this,  and  think  only  of  how  good  God  had 
been  to  them;  and  so  they  all  were  happy 
together  at  the  first  Thanksgiving  party. 
•  •••••• 

All  this  happened  nearly  three  hundred 
years  ago,  and  ever  since  that  time  Thanksgiv- 
ing has  been  kept  in  our  country. 

Every  year  our  fathers  and  grandfathers 
and  great-grandfathers  have  "  rejoiced  to- 
gether "  like  the  Pilgrims,  and  have  had  some- 
thing to  be  thankful  for  each  time. 

Every  year  some  father  has  told  the  story 
of  the  brave  Pilgrims  to  his  little  sons  and 
daughters,  and  has  taught  them  to  be  very 
glad  and  proud  that  the  Mayflower  came 
sailing  to  our  country  so  many  years  ago. 


LITTLE  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 


PART  I. 


11  The  child  takes  each  story  as  a  conquest,  grasps  each  as 
a  treasure,  and  inserts  into  his  own  life,  for  his  own  advance- 
ment and  instruction,  what  each  story  teaches  and  shows." — 
Troebel. 

Every  one  of  my  little  children  has  seen  a 
picture  of  George  Washington,  I  am  sure. 

Perhaps  you  may  remember  his  likeness  on 
a  prancing  white  horse,  holding  his  cocked 
hat  in  his  hand,  and  bowing  low  to  the  people, 
or  his  picture  as  a  general  at  the  head  of  his 
armies,  with  a  sword  by  his  side  and  high  boots 
reaching  to  the  knee  ;  sometimes  you  have  seen 
him  in  a  boat  crossing  the  Delaware  River, 
wrapped  in  his  heavy  soldier's  cloak  ;  and  again 
as  a  President,  with  powdered  hair,  lace  ruffles, 
and  velvet  coat. 

Of  course  all  these  are  pictures  of  a  strong, 
handsome,  grown-up  man,  and  I  suppose  you 


116        LITTLE   GEORGE    WASHINGTON. 

never  happened  to  think  that  George  Wash- 
ington was  once  a  little  boy. 

But  ever  so  long  ago  he  was  as  small  as 
you  are  now,  and  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about 
his  father  and  mother,  his  home  and  his  little- 
boy  days. 

He  was  born  one  hundred  and  sixty  years 
ago  in  Virginia,  near  a  great  river  called  the 
Potomac.  His  father's  name  was  Augustine, 
his  mother's  Mary,  and  he  had  several  brothers 
and  a  little  sister. 

They  all  lived  in  the  country  on  a  farm,  or 
a  plantation,  as  they  call  it  in  Virginia.  The 
Washington  house  stood  in  the  middle  of 
green  tobacco  fields  and  flowery  meadows,  and 
there  w6re  so  many  barns  and  storehouses  and 
sheds  round  about  it  that  they  made  quite  a 
village  of  themselves.  The  nearest  neighbors 
lived  miles  away ;  there  were  no  railroads  nor 
stages,  and  if  you  wanted  to  travel,  you  must 
ride  on  horseback  through  the  thick  woods, 
or  you  might  sail  in  little  boats  up  and  down 
the  rivers. 

City  boys  and  girls  might  think,  perhaps, 
that  little  George  Washington  was  very  lonely 
on  the  great  plantation,  with  no  neighbor-boys 


LITTLE   GEORGE    WASHINGTON.        117 

to  play  with ;  but  you  must  remember  that 
the  horses  and  cattle  and  sheep  and  dogs  on 
a  farm  make  the  dearest  of  playmates,  and 
that  there  are  all  kinds  of  pleasant  things  to 
do  in  the  country  that  city  boys  know  nothing 
about. 

Little  George  played  out  of  doors  all  the 
time  and  grew  very  strong.  He  went  fishing 
and  swimming  in  the  great  river,  he  ran  races 
and  jumped  fences  with  his  brothers  and  the 
dogs,  he  threw  stones  across  the  brooks,  and 
when  he  grew  a  larger  boy  he  even  learned 
to  shoot. 

He  had  a  pretty  pony,  too,  named  "  Hero," 
that  he  loved  very  much,  and  that  he  used  to 
ride  all  about  the  plantation. 

Some  of  the  letters  have  been  kept  that  he 
wrote  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  he  talks  in 
them  about  his  pony,  and  his  books  with  pic- 
tures of  elephants,  and  the  new  top  he  is  going 
to  have  soon. 

Think  of  that  great  General  Washington  on 
a  white  horse  once  playing  with  a  little  hum- 
ming top  like  yours ! 

Many  things  are  told  about  Washington 
when  he  was  little ;  but  he  lived  so  long  ago 


118        LITTLE   GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

that  we  cannot  tell  very  well  whether  they  ever 
happened  or  not.  One  story  is  that  his  father 
took  him  out  into  the  garden  on  a  spring 
morning,  and  drew  the  letters  of  his  name  with 
a  cane  in  the  soft  earth.  Then  he  filled  the 
letters  with  seed,  and  told  little  George  to  wait 
a  week  or  two  and  see  what  would  happen. 
You  can  all  guess  what  did  happen,  and  can 
think  how  pleased  the  little  boy  was  when  he 
found  his  name  all  growing  in  fresh  green 
leaves. 

Then  another  story,  I  'm  sure  you  've  all 
heard,  is  about  the  cherry-tree  and  the  hatchet. 

Little  George's  father  gave  him  one  day,  so 
they  say,  a  nice,  bright,  sharp  little  hatchet. 
Of  course  he  went  around  the  barns  and  the 
sheds,  trying  everything  and  seeing  how  well 
he  could  cut,  and  at  last  he  went  into  the  or« 
chard.  There  he  saw  a  young  cherry-tree,  as 
straight  as  a  soldier,  with  the  most  beautiful^ 
smooth,  shining  bark,  waving  its  boughs  in  a 
very  provoking  way,  as  if  to  say,  "  You  can'* 
cut  me  down,  and  you  need  n't  try." 

Little  George  did  try  and  he  did  cut  it 
down,  and  then  was  very  sorry,  for  he  found 
it  was  not  so  easy  to  set  it  up  again. 


1  The  letters  of  his  name      .  .   in  the  soft  earth."     Page  118. 


LITTLE   GEORGE    WASHINGTON.        119 

His  father  was  angry,  of  course,  for  he 
lived  in  a  new  country,  and  three  thousand 
miles  from  any  place  where  he  could  get  good 
fruit  trees ;  but  when  the  little  boy  told  the 
truth  about  it,  his  father  said  he  would  rather 
lose  a  thousand  cherry-trees  than  have  his  son 
tell  a  lie. 

Now  perhaps  this  never  happened;  but  if 
George  Washington  ever  did  cut  down  a 
cherry-tree,  you  may  be  sure  he  told  the  truth 
about  it. 

I  think,  though  he  grew  to  be  such  a 
wise,  wonderful  man,  that  he  must  have  been 
just  a  bright,  happy  boy  like  you,  when  he 
was  little. 

But  everybody  knows  three  things  about 
him,  —  that  he  always  told  the  truth,  that  he 
never  was  afraid  of  anything,  and  that  he  al- 
ways loved  and  minded  his  mother. 

When  little  George  was  eleven  years  old, 
his  good  father  died,  and  his  poor  mother  was 
left  alone  to  take  care  of  her  boys  and  her 
great  plantation.  What  a  busy  mother  she 
was !  She  mended  and  sewed,  she  taught 
some  of  her  children,  she  took  care  of  the  sick 
people,  she  spun  wool  and  knitted  stockings 


120        LITTLE  GEORGE   WASHINGTON. 

and  gloves ;  but  every  day  she  found  time  to 
gather  her  children  around  her  and  read  good 
books  to  them,  and  talk  to  them  about  being 
good  children. 

So  riding  his  pony,  and  helping  his  mother, 
and  learning  his  lessons,  George  grew  to  be  a 
tall  boy. 

When  he  was  fourteen  years  old,  he  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  like  to  be  a  sailor, 
and  travel  far  away  over  the  blue  water  in  a 
great  ship.  His  elder  brother  said  that  he 
might  do  so.  The  right  ship  was  found ;  his 
clothes  were  packed  and  carried  on  board, 
when  all  at  once  his  mother  said  he  must  not 
go.  She  had  thought  about  it ;  he  was  too 
young  to  go  away,  and  she  wanted  her  boy  to 
stay  with  her. 

Of  course  George  was  greatly  disappointed, 
but  he  stayed  at  home,  and  worked  and  stud- 
ied hard.  He  wanted  very  much  to  learn  how 
to  earn  money  and  help  his  mother,  and  so 
he  studied  to  be  a  surveyor. 

Surveyors  measure  the  land,  you  know0 
They  measure  people's  gardens  and  house-lots 
and  farms,  and  can  tell  just  where  to  put  the 
fences,  and  how  much  land  belongs  to  you  and 


LITTLE   GEORGE    WASHINGTON.        121 

how  much  to  me,  so  that  we  need  never 
quarrel  about  it. 

To  be  a  good  surveyor  you  have  to  be  very 
careful  indeed,  and  make  no  mistakes;  and 
George  Washington  was  careful*  and  always 
tried  to  do  his  best,  so  that  his  surveys  were 
the  finest  that  could  be  made. 

When  he  was  only  sixteen,  he  went  off  into 
the  great  forest,  where  no  one  lived  but  the  In- 
dians, to  measure  some  land  for  a  friend  of 
his.  The  weather  was  cold ;  he  slept  in  a  tent 
at  night,  or  out  of  doors,  on  a  bearskin  by  the 
fire,  and  he  had  to  work  very  hard.  He  met 
a  great  many  Indians,  and  learned  to  know 
their  ways  in  fighting  and  how  to  manage 
them. 

Three  years  he  worked  hard  at  surveying, 
and  at  last  h6  was  a  grown-up  man ! 

He  was  tall  and  splendid  then,  over  six  feet 
high,  and  as  straight  as  an  Indian,  with  a  rosy 
face  and  bright  blue  eyes.  He  had  large 
hands  and  fingers,  and  was  wonderfully  strong. 
People  say  that  his  great  tent,  which  it  took 
three  men  to  carry,  Washington  could  lift  with 
one  hand  and  throw  into  the  wagon. 

He  was  very  brave,  too,  you  remember.     He 


122        LITTLE  GEORGE    WASHINGTON. 

could  shoot  well,  and  almost  never  missed  his 
aim  ;  he  was  used  to  walking  many  miles  when 
he  was  surveying,  and  he  could  ride  any  horse 
he  liked,  no  matter  how  wild  and  fierce. 

So  you  se6,  when  a  man  is  strong,  when  he 
can  shoot  well,  and  walk  and  ride  great  dis- 
tances, when  he  is  never  afraid  of  anything, 
that  is  just  the  man  for  a  soldier ;  and  I  will 
tell  you  soon  how  George  Washington  came 
to  be  a  great  soldier. 


GREAT  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

PART   II. 

"  The  good  story-teller  effects  much  ;  he  has  an  ennobling 
effect  upon  children,  —  so  much  the  more  ennobling  that  he 
does  not  appear  to  intend  it." —  Froebel. 

All  this  time  while  George  Washington 
had  been  growing  up,  —  first  a  little  boy, 
then  a  larger  boy,  and  then  a  young  surveyor, 
—  all  this  time  the  French  and  English  and 
Indians  were  unhappy  and  uncomfortable  in 
the  country  north  of  Virginia.  The  French 
wanted  all  the  land,  so  did  the  English,  and 
the  Indians  saw  that  there  would  be  no  room 
for  them,  whichever  had  it,  so  they  all  began 
to  trouble  each  other  and  to  quarrel  and  fight. 

These  troubles  grew  so  bad  at  last  that  the 
Virginians  began  to  be  afraid  of  the  French 
and  Indians,  and  thought  they  must  have 
some  soldiers  of  their  own  ready  to  fight. 

George  Washington  was  only  nineteen  then, 
but  everybody  knew  he  was  wise  and  brave, 


124        GREAT  GEORGE    WASHINGTON. 

so  they  chose  him  to  teach  the  soldiers  near 
his  home  how  to  march  and  to  fight. 

Then  the  king  and  the  people  of  England 
grew  very  uneasy  at  all  this  quarreling,  and 
they  sent  over  soldiers  and  cannon  and  pow- 
der, and  commenced  to  get  ready  to  fight  in 
earnest.  Washington  was  made  a  major,  and 
he  had  to  go  a  thousand  miles,  in  the  middle 
of  winter,  into  the  Indian  and  French  country, 
to  see  the  chiefs  and  the  soldiers,  and  find  out 
about  the  troubles. 

When  he  came  back  again,  all  the  people 
were  so  pleased  with  his  courage  and  with  the 
wise  way  in  which  he  had  behaved,  that  they 
made  him  lieutenant-colonel. 

Then  began  a  long  war  between  the  French 
and  the  English,  which  lasted  seven  years. 
Washington  fought  through  all  of  it,  and  was 
made  a  colonel,  and  by  and  by  commander  of 
all  the  soldiers  in  Virginia.  He  built  forts 
and  roads,  he  gained  and  lost  battles,  he 
fought  the  Indians  and  the  French ;  and  by 
all  this  trouble  and  hard  work  he  learned  to 
be  a  great  soldier. 

In  many  of  the  battles  of  this  war,  Wash- 
ington  and   the    Virginians  did   not  wear  a 


GREAT  GEORGE    WASHINGTON.        125 

uniform  like  the  English  soldiers,  but  a 
buckskin  shirt  and  fringed  leggings  like  the 
Indians. 

From  beginning  to  end  of  some  of  the 
battles,  Washington  rode  about  among  the 
men,  telling  them  where  to  go  and  how  to 
fight ;  the  bullets  were  whistling  around  him 
all  the  time,  but  he  said  he  liked  the  music. 

By  and  by  the  war  was  over ;  the  French 
were  driven  back  to  their  own  part  of  the 
country,  and  Washington  went  home  to  Mt. 
Vernon  to  rest,  and  took  with  him  his  wife, 
lovely  Martha  Washington,  whom  he  had  met 
and  married  while  he  was  fighting  the  French 
and  Indians. 

While  he  was  at  Mt.  Vernon  he  saw  all  his 
horses  again,  —  "  Valiant "  and  u  Magnolia  " 
and  "Chinkling"  and  "Ajax," — and  had 
grand  gallops  over  the  country. 

He  had  some  fine  dogs,  too,  to  run  by  his 
side,  and  help  him  hunt  the  bushy-tailed 
foxes.  "  Vulcan  "  and  "  Ringwood  "  and 
"  Music  "  and  "  Sweetlips  "  were  the  names  of 
some  of  them.  You  may  be  sure  the  dogs 
were  glad  when  they  had  their  master  home 
again. 


126         GREAT  GEORGE    WASHINGTON. 

But  Washington  did  not  have  long  to  rest, 
for  another  war  was  coming,  the  great  war  of 
the  Revolution. 

Little  children  cannot  understand  all  the 
reasons  for  this  war,  but  I  can  tell  you  some 
of  them. 

You  remember  in  the  story  of  Thanksgiving 
I  told  you  about  the  Pilgrim  fathers,  who 
came  from  England  to  this  country  because 
their  king  would  not  let  them  pray  to  God 
as  they  liked.  That  king  was  dead  now,  and 
there  was  another  in  his  place,  a  king  with 
the  name  of  George,  like  our  Washington. 

Now  our  great-grandfathers  had  always 
loved  England  and  Englishmen,  because  many 
of  their  friends  were  still  living  there,  and 
because  it  was  their  old  home. 

The  king  gave  them  governors  to  help  take 
care  of  their  people,  and  soldiers  to  fight  for 
them,  and  they  sent  to  England  for  many 
things  to  wear  and  to  eat. 

But  just  before  this  Revolutionary  War, 
the  king  and  the  great  men  who  helped  him 
began  to  say  that  things  should  be  done  in 
this  country  that  our  people  did  not  think 
right  at  all.     The  king  said  they  must  buy 


GREAT  GEORGE    WASHINGTON.        127 

expensive  stamps  to  put  on  all  their  news- 
papers and  almanacs  and  lawyer's  papers,  and 
that  they  must  pay  very  high  taxes  on  their 
tea  and  paper  and  glass,  arid  he  sent  soldiers 
to  see  that  this  was  done. 

This  made  our  great-grandfathers  very 
angry.  They  refused  to  pay  the  taxes,  they 
would  not  buy  anything  from  England  any 
more,  and  some  men  even  went  on  board  the 
ships,  as  they  came  into  Boston  Harbor,  and 
threw  the  tea  over  into  the  water. 

So  fifty-one  men  were  chosen  from  all  over 
the  country,  and  they  met  at  Philadelphia,  to 
see  what  could  be  done.  Washington  was  sent 
from  Virginia.  And  after  they  had  talked 
very  solemnly,  they  all  thought  there  would 
be  great  trouble  soon,  and  Washington  went 
home  to  drill  the  soldiers. 

Then  the  war  began  with  the  battle  of  Lex- 
ington, in  New  England,  and  soon  Washington 
was  made  commander  in  chief  of  the  armies. 

He  rode  the  whole  distance  from  Philadel- 
phia to  Boston  on  horseback,  with  a  troop  of 
officers ;  and  all  the  people  on  the  way  came 
to  see  him,  bringing  bands  of  music  and 
cheering  him  as  he  went  by.     He  rode  into 


128        GREAT  GEORGE    WASHINGTON. 

camp  in  the  morning.  The  soldiers  were 
drawn  up  in  the  road,  and  men  and  women 
and  children  who  had  come  to  look  at  Wash- 
ington were  crowded  all  about.  They  saw  a 
tall,  splendid,  handsome  man  in  a  blue  coat 
with  buff  facings,  and  epaulets  on  his  shoulders. 
As  he  took  off  his  hat,  drew  his  shining  sword 
and  raised  it  in  sight  of  all  the  people,  the 
cannon  began  to  thunder,  and  all  the  people 
hurrahed  and  tossed  their  hats  in  the  air. 

Of  course  he  looked  very  splendid,  and  they 
all  knew  how  brave  he  was,  and  thought  he 
would  soon  put  an  end  to  the  war. 

But  it  did  not  happen  as  they  expected,  for 
this  was  only  the  beginning,  and  the  war  lasted 
seven  long  years. 

Fighting  is  always  hard,  even  if  you  have 
plenty  of  soldiers  and  plenty  for  them  to  eat ; 
but  Washington  had  very  few  soldiers,  and 
very  little  powder  for  the  guns,  and  little  food 
for  the  men  to  eat. 

The  soldiers  were  not  in  uniform,  as  ours 
are  to-day ;  but  each  was  dressed  just  as  he 
happened  to  come  from  his  shop  or  his  farm. 

Washington  ordered  hunting  shirts  for 
them,  such  as  he  wore  when  he  went  to  fight 


GREAT  GEORGE    WASHINGTON.         129 

the  Indians,  for  he  knew  they  would  look 
more  like  soldiers  if  all  were  dressed  alike. 

Of  course  many  people  thought  that  our 
men  would  be  beaten,  as  the  war  went  on; 
but  Washington  never  thought  so,  for  he  was 
sure  our  side  was  right. 

I  hardly  know  what  he  would  have  done,  at 
last,  if  the  French  people  had  not  promised  to 
come  over  and  help  us,  and  to  send  us  money 
and  men  and  ships.  All  the  people  in  the 
army  thanked  God  when  they  heard  it,  and 
fired  their  guns  for  joy. 

A  brave  young  man  named  Lafayette  came 
with  the  French  soldiers,  and  he  grew  to  be 
Washington's  great  friend,  and  fought  for  us 
all  through  the  Kevolution. 

Many  battles  were  fought  in  this  war,  and 
Washington  lost  some  of  them,  and  a  great 
many  of  his  men  were  killed. 

You  could  hardly  understand  how  much 
trouble  he  had.  In  the  winter,  when  the  snow 
was  deep  on  the  ground,  he  had  no  houses 
or  huts  for  his  men  to  sleep  in ;  his  soldiers 
were  ragged  and  cold  by  day,  and  had  not 
blankets  enough  to  keep  them  warm  by  night ; 
their  shoes  were  old  and  worn,  and  they  had 


130         GREAT  GEORGE   WASHINGTON. 

to  wrap  cloths  around  their  feet  to  keep  them 
from  freezing. 

When  they  marched  to  the  Delaware  River, 
one  cold  Christmas  night,  a  soldier  who  was 
sent  after  them,  with  a  message  for  Washing- 
ton, traced  them  by  their  footprints  on  the 
snow,  all  reddened  with  the  blood  from  their 
poor  cut  feet. 

They  must  have  been  very  brave  and  pa- 
tient to  have  fought  at  all,  when  they  were  so 
cold  and  ragged  and  hungry. 

Washington  suffered  a  great  deal  in  seeing 
his  soldiers  so  wretched,  and  I  am  sure  that, 
with  all  his  strength  and  courage,  he  would 
sometimes  have  given  up  hope,  if  he  had  not 
talked  and  prayed  to  God  a  great  deal,  and 
asked  Him  to  help  him. 

In  one  of  the  hardest  times  of  the  whole 
war,  Washington  was  staying  at  a  farmer's 
house  o  One  morning,  he  rode  out  very  early 
to  visit  the  soldiers.  The  farmer  went  into 
the  fields  soon  after,  and  as  he  was  passing  a 
brook  where  a  great  many  bushes  were  grow- 
ing, he  heard  a  deep  voice  from  the  thicket. 
He  looked  through  the  leaves,  and  saw  Wash- 
ington on  his  knees,  on  the  ground,  praying 


GREAT  GEORGE    WASHINGTON.        131 

to  God  for  his  soldiers.  He  had  fastened  his 
horse  to  a  tree,  and  come  away  by  himself  to 
ask  God  to  help  them. 

At  last  the  war  came  to  an  end ;  the  Eng- 
lish were  beaten,  and  our  armies  sent  up 
praise  and  thanks  to  God. 

Then  the  soldiers  went  quietly  back  to  their 
homes,  and  Washington  bade  all  his  officers 
good-by,  and  thanked  them  for  their  help  and 
their  courage. 

The  little  room  in  New  York  where  he  said 
farewell  is  kept  to  show  to  visitors  now,  and 
you  can  see  it  some  day  yourselves. 

Then  Washington  went  home  to  Mt.  Ver- 
non to  rest;  but  before  he  had  been  there 
long,  the  people  found  out  that  they  must 
have  some  one  to  help  take  care  of  them,  as 
they  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  king  of  Eng- 
land any  more ;  and  they  asked  Washington 
to  come  and  be  the  first  President  of  the 
United   States. 

So  he  did  as  they  wished,  and  was  as  wise 
and  good,  and  as  careful  and  fine  a  President 
as  he  had  been  surveyor,  soldier,  and  general. 

You  know  we  always  call  Washington  the 
Father  of  his  Country,  because  he  did  so  much 


132        GREAT  GEORGE    WASHINGTON. 

for  us  and  helped  to  make  the  United  States 
so  great. 

After  he  died,  there  were  parks  and  moun- 
tains and  villages  and  towns  and  cities  named 
for  him  all  over  the  land,  because  people 
loved  him  so  and  prized  so  highly  what  he 
had  done  for  them. 

In  the  city  of  Washington  there  is  a  build* 
ing  where  you  can  see  many  of  the  things 
that  belonged  to  the  first  President,  when  he 
was  alive.  There  is  his  soldier's  coat,  his 
sword,  and  in  an  old  camp  chest  are  the 
plates  and  knives  and  forks  that  he  used  in 
the  Revolution. 

There  is  a  tall,  splendid  monument  of  shin- 
ing gray  stone  in  that  city,  that  towers  far,  far 
above  all  the  highest  roofs  and  spires.  It 
was  built  in  memory  of  George  Washington, 
by  the  people  of  the  United  States,  to  show 
that  they  loved  and  would  always  remember 
the  Father  of  his  Country. 


THE  MAPLE-LEAF  AND  THE 
VIOLET. 


"  Story-telling  must  please  children,  so  that  it  will  influ- 
ence, strengthen,  and  elevate  their  lives."  —  FroebeLc 

The  Maple-tree  lived  on  the  edge  of  the 
wood.  Beside  and  behind  her  the  trees  grew 
so  thick  and  tall  that  there  was  plenty  of  shade 
at  her  roots ;  but  as  no  one  stood  in  front,  she 
could  always  look  across  the  meadows  to  the 
brown  house  where  Bessie  lived,  and  could  see 
what  went  on  in  the  world. 

After  the  cold  winter  had  gone  by,  and  the 
spring  had  come  again,  the  Maple-tree  sent 
out  thousands  of  tiny  leaf-buds,  that  stretched 
themselves,  and  grew  larger  day  by  day  in  the 
warm  sunshine.  One  little  Bud,  on  the  end 
of  a  tall  branch,  worked  so  hard  to  grow  that 
by  and  by  he  finished  opening  all  his  folds, 
and  found  himself  a  tiny  pale  green  leaf. 

He  was  curious,  as  little  folks  generally  are, 


134     THE  MAPLE-LEAF  AND    THE  VIOLET. 

and  as  soon  as  he  opened  his  eyes  wanted  tc 
see  everything  about  him.  First  he  looked 
up  at  the  blue  sky  overhead,  but  the  sky  only 
looked  quietly  back  at  him.  Then  he  looked 
across  the  meadows  to  where  Bessie  lived,  bul 
Bessie  was  at  school  and  the  house  was  still. 

Then  he  gazed  far  down  below  him  on  the 
ground ;  and  there,  just  beneath,  was  a  little 
Violet.  She  had  uncurled  her  purple  petals  a 
few  days  before,  and  was  waiting  to  welcome 
the  first  leaf -bud  that  came  out. 

So  when  the  Maple-leaf  looked  down,  she 
smiled  up  at  him  and  said,  "  Good-morning." 
He  answered  her  politely,  but  he  was  very 
little,  and  did  not  know  quite  what  to  say,  so 
he  did  n't  talk  any  more  that  day. 

The  next  morning  they  greeted  each  other 
again,  and  soon  they  grew  to  be  good  friends, 
and  talked  together  very  happily  all  day. 
The  Maple-leaf  lived  so  high  up  in  the  tree 
that  he  could  easily  see  across  the  fields,  and 
he  watched  every  day  for  Bessie  as  she 
started  for  school.  When  she  came  out  of 
her  door,  he  told  the  Violet,  and  the  Violet 
always  said  every  morning,  "  Dear  Bessie  !  1 
should  like  to  see  her,  too !  " 


THE  MAPLE-LEAF  AND   THE  VIOLET.    135 

Sometimes,  when  the  day  was  chilly  and  it 
was  almost  too  damp  in  the  shade,  the  Violet 
used  to  wish  she  might  be  high  up  on  the 
branch  above  her,  waving  about  in  the  sun- 
shine like  the  Maple-leaf ;  but  she  was  a  con- 
tented little  thing,  and  never  fretted  long  for 
what  she  could  not  have. 

It  was  generally  pleasant  on  the  ground, 
and  the  bugs  and  caterpillars  and  worms, 
as  they  crawled  about  at  her  roots,  often 
told  her  very  interesting  things  about  their 
families  and  their  troubles. 

One  day  it  was  very  dry  and  warm.  The 
Maple-leaf  was  not  at  all  comfortable,  high  in 
the  hot  air,  and  he  said  to  his  mother,  "  Mother- 
tree,  won't  you  let  me  go  down  by  the  Violet 
and  be  cool?" 

Then  the  Maple-tree  answered,  "No,  no, 
little  leaf,  not  now ;  if  I  once  let  you  go,  you 
can  never  come  back  again.  Stay  quietly  here ; 
the  time  will  soon  come  for  you  to  leave  me." 

The  Maple-leaf  told  this  to  the  Violet,  and 
then  they  began  to  fear  that  when  the  mother- 
tree  let  him  go,  by  and  by,  he  might  not  be 
able  to  fall  close  beside  the  Violet. 

So  the  next  day,  when  the  wind  came  whis- 


136     THE  MAPLE-LEAF  AND   THE  VIOLET. 

tling  along,  the  Violet  asked  him  if  he  would 
kindly  take  care  of  the  leaf,  and  send  him  to 
her  when  the  mother-tree  let  him  go.  The 
wind  was  rough  and  careless,  and  said  he 
really  didn't  know.  He  couldn't  be  sure 
how  he'd  feel  then.  They  would  have  to 
wait  and  see. 

The  two  little  friends  were  rather  unhappy 
about  this,  but  they  waited  quietly.  By  and 
by  the  weather  grew  cold.  The  air  was  so 
chill  that  the  Maple-leaf  shivered  in  the  night, 
and  in  the  morning,  when  the  sun  rose,  and  he 
could  see  himself,  he  found  he  was  all  red, 
just  as  your  hands  and  cheeks  are  on  a  frosty 
morning.  When  the  mother-tree  saw  him, 
she  told  him  he  would  soon  leave  her  now,  and 
she  bade  him  good-by.  He  was  sorry  to  go, 
but  then  he  thought  of  his  dear  Violet,  and 
was  happy  again. 

By  and  by  a  gust  of  cold  wind  came  blow- 
ing by,  and  twisted  the  little  leaf  about,  and 
fluttered  him  so  that  he  could  not  hold  to 
the  tree  any  longer.  So  at  last  he  blew  off, 
and  the  wind  took  him  up  and  danced  with 
him  and  played  with  him  until  he  was  very 
tired  and  dizzy.     But  at   last,  for  he  was  a 


THE  MAPLE-LEAF  AND   THE  VIOLET.    137 

kind  wind  after  all,  he  blew  the  leaf  back, 
straight  to  the  side  of  the  Violet.  How  close 
they  cuddled  to  each  other,  and  how  happy 
they  were !  You  would  have  been  very  glad 
if  you  had  seen  them  together. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  sun  rose  yellow 
and  bright,  Bessie  came  into  the  woods  with 
a  basket  and  a  trowel.  It  was  nearly  winter, 
and  she  knew  that  soon  the  snow  would 
fall  and  cover  all  the  pretty  growing  things. 
So  she  dug  up,  very  carefully,  roots  of 
plumy  fern  and  partridge  berries  with  their 
leaves,  and  wintergreen  and  boxberry  plants, 
to  grow  in  her  window-garden  in  the  winter. 
She  took  the  Violet  too,  bringing  away  so 
much  of  the  earth  around  her  roots  that  the 
little  thing  scarcely  felt  that  she  had  been 
moved.  As  Bessie  put  her  plants  in  the  bas- 
ket, she  saw  the  little  Maple-leaf  resting  close 
by  the  violet,  but  he  looked  so  pretty,  lying 
there,  that  she  did  not  move  him. 

In  the  sunny  window  of  the  little  brown 
house  the  Violet  grew  still  more  fresh  and 
green.  But  each  day,  as  the  plants  were 
watered,  the  Maple-leaf  curled  up  a  little  more 
at  the  edges,  and  sank  down  farther  into  the 


138     THE  MAPLE-LEAF  AND   THE  VIOLET. 

earth,  until  soon  he  was  almost  out  of  sight, 
and  by  and  by  crumbled  quite  away.  Still  he 
was  close  beside  his  Violet,  and  all  the  strength 
he  had  he  gave  to  her  roots. 

She  always  loved  him  just  the  same,  though 
she  could  not  see  him  any  longer,  and  by  and 
by,  when  she  had  lived  her  life,  and  her  leaves 
withered  away,  each  one,  as  it  fell  from  the 
stem,  sank  into  the  earth  where  the  Maple- 
leaf  lay. 


MRS.  CHINCHILLA. 

THE   TALE    OF  A   CAT. 

"  See  what  joyous  faces,  what  shining  eyes,  and  what  glad 
jubilee  welcome  the  story-teller,  and  what  a  blooming  circle 
of  glad  children  press  around  him  !  "  —  Froebel. 

Mrs.  Chinchilla  was  not  a  lovely  lady, 
with  a  dress  of  soft  gray  cloth  and  a  great 
chinchilla  muff  and  boa.  Not  at  all.  Mrs. 
Chinchilla  was  a  beautiful  cat,  with  sleek  fur 
like  silver-gray  satin,  and  a  very  handsome 
tail  to  match,  quite  long  enough  to  brush  the 
ground  when  she  walked.  She  did  n't  live  in 
a  house,  but  she  had  a  very  comfortable  home 
in  a  fine  drug-store,  with  one  large  bay-win- 
dow almost  to  herself  and  her  kittens.  She 
had  three  pretty  fat  dumplings  of  kittens, 
all  in  soft  shades  of  gray  like  their  mother. 
She  did  n't  like  any  other  color  in  kittens  so 
well  as  a  quiet  ladylike  gray.  None  of  her 
children  ever  were  black,  or  white,  or  yellow, 
but  sometimes  they  had  four  snow-white  socks 


140  MRS.   CHINCHILLA. 

on  their  gray  paws.  Mrs.  Chinchilla  did  n't 
mind  that,  for  white  socks  were  really  a  hand- 
some finish  to  a  gray  kitten,  though,  of 
course,  it  was  a  deal  of  trouble  to  keep  them 
clean. 

At  the  time  my  story  begins  the  kits  were 
all  tiny  catkins,  whose  eyes  had  been  open  only 
a  day  or  two,  so  Mrs.  Chinchilla  had  to  wash 
them  every  morning  herself.  She  had  the  most 
wonderful  tongue  !  I  '11  tell  you  what  that 
tongue  had  in  it  :  a  hair-brush,  a  comb,  a 
tooth-brush,  a  nail-brush,  a  sponge,  a  towel, 
and  a  cake  of  soap  !  And  when  Mrs.  Chin- 
chilla had  finished  those  three  little  catkins, 
they  were  as  fresh  and  sweet,  and  shiny  and 
clean,  and  kissable  and  huggable,  as  any  baby 
just  out  of  a  bath-tub. 

One  morning,  just  after  the  little  kits  had 
had  their  scrub  in  the  sunny  bay-window, 
they  felt,  all  at  once,  old  enough  to  play ;  and 
so  they  began  to  scramble  over  each  other, 
and  run  about  between  the  great  colored 
glass  jars,  and  even  to  chase  and  bite  the  ends 
of  their  own  tails.  They  had  not  known  that 
they  had  any  tails  before  that  morning,  and 
of  course  it  was  a  charming  surprise.     Mrs. 


MRS.   CHINCHILLA.  141 

Chinchilla  looked  on  lazily  and  gravely.  It 
had  been  a  good  while  since  she  had  had  time 
or  had  felt  young  and  gay  enough  to  chase 
her  tail,  but  she  was  very  glad  to  see  the 
kittens  enjoy  themselves  harmlessly. 

Now,  while  this  was  going  on,  some  one 
came  up  to  the  window  and  looked  in.  It 
was  the  Boy  who  lived  across  the  street.  Mrs. 
Chinchilla  disliked  nearly  all  boys,  but  she  was 
afraid  of  this  one.  He  had  golden  curls  and 
a  Fauntleroy  collar,  and  the  sweetest  lips  that 
ever  said  prayers,  and  clean  dimpled  hands 
that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  made  to  stroke 
cats  and  make  them  purr.  But  instead  of 
stroking  them  he  rubbed  their  fur  the  wrong 
way,  and  hung  tin  kettles  to  their  tails,  and 
tied  handkerchiefs  over  their  heads.  When 
Mrs.  Chinchilla  saw  the  Boy  she  humped  her 
back,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  gray  mountain, 
and  said,  "  Sftt ! "  three  times.  When  the 
Boy  found  that  she  was  looking  at  him,  and 
lashing  her  tail,  and  yawning  so  as  to  show 
him  her  sharp  white  teeth,  he  suddenly  dis- 
appeared from  sight.  So  Mrs.  Chinchilla  gave 
the  kittens  their  breakfast,  and  they  cuddled 
themselves  into  a  round  ball,  and  went  fast 


142  MRS.   CHINCHILLA. 

asleep.  They  were  first  rolled  so  tightly,  add 
then  so  tied  up  with  their  tails,  that  you 
could  n't  hive  told  whether  they  were  three  or 
six  little  catkins.  When  their  soft  purr-r-r-r, 
purr~r-r-r  had  first  changed  into  sleepy  little 
snores,  and  then  died  away  altogether,  Mrs. 
Chinchilla  jumped  down  out  of  the  window^ 
and  went  for  her  morning  airing  in  the  back 
yard.  At  the  same  time  the  druggist  passed 
behind  a  tall  desk  to  mix  some  medicine,  and 
the  shop  was  left  alone. 

Just  then  the  Boy  (for  he  had  n't  gone 
away  at  all ;  he  had  just  stooped  out  of  sight) 
rushed  in  the  door  quickly,  snatched  one  of 
the  kittens  out  of  the  round  ball,  and  ran 
away  with  it  as  fast  as  he  could  run.  Pretty 
soon  Mrs.  Chinchilla  came  back,  and  of  course 
she  counted  the  kittens  the  very  first  thing. 
She  always  did  it.  To  her  surprise  and  fright 
she  found  only  two  instead  of  three.  She 
knew  she  could  n't  be  mistaken.  There  were 
five  kittens  in  her  last  family,  and  two  less  in 
this  family ;  and  five  kittens  less  two  kittens 
is  three  kittens.  One  chinchilla  catkin  gone ! 
What  should  she  do  ? 

She  had  once  heard  a  lady  say  that  there 


MRS.   CHINCHILLA.  143 

were  too  many  cats  in  the  world  already,  but 
she  had  no  patience  with  people  who  made 
such  wicked  speeches.  Her  kittens  had  always 
been  so  beautiful  that  they  sometimes  sold  for 
fifty  cents  apiece,  and  none  of  them  had  ever 
been  drowned. 

Mrs.  Chinchilla  knew  in  a  second  just  where 
that  kitten  had  gone.  It  makes  a  pussy-cat  * 
very  quick  and  bright  and  wise  to  take  care  of 
and  train  large  families  of  frisky  kittens,  with 
very  little  help  from  their  father  in  bringing 
them  up.  She  knew  that  that  Boy  had  car- 
ried off  the  kitten,  and  she  intended  to  have 
it  back,  and  scratch  the  Boy  with  some  long 
scratches,  if  she  could  only  get  the  chance. 
Looking  at  her  claws,  she  found  them  nice 
and  sharp,  and  as  the  druggist  opened  the 
door  for  a  customer  Mrs.  Chinchilla  slipped 
out,  with  just  one  backward  glance,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  Gone  out ;  will  be  back  soon." 
Then  she  dashed  across  the  street,  and  waited 
on  the  steps  of  the  Boy's  house.  Very  soon  a 
man  came  with  a  bundle,  and  when  the  house- 
maid opened  the  door  Mrs.  Chinchilla  walked 
in.  She  had  n't  any  visiting-card  with  her ; 
but  then  the  Boy  had  n't  left  any  card  when 


144  MRS.   CHINCHILLA. 

he  called  for  the  kitten,  so  she  did  n't  care  for 
that. 

The  housemaid  did  n't  see  her  when  she 
slipped  in.  It  was  a  very  nice  house  to  hold 
such  a  heartless  boy,  she  thought.  The  par- 
lor door  was  open,  but  she  knew  the  kitten 
would  n't  be  there,  so  she  ran  upstairs.  When 
she  reached  the  upper  hall  she  stood  perfectly 
still,  with  her  ears  up  and  her  whiskers  trem- 
bling. Suddenly  she  heard  a  faint  mew,  then 
another,  and  then  a  laugh ;  that  was  the  Boy. 
She  pushed  open  a  door  that  was  ajar,  and 
walked  into  the  nursery.  The  Boy  was  seated 
in%the  middle  of  the  floor,  tying  the  kitten  to 
a  tin  cart,  and  the  poor  little  thing  was  mew- 
ing piteously.  Mrs.  Chinchilla  dashed  up  to 
the  Boy,  scratched  him  as  many  long  scratches 
as  she  had  time  for  at  that  moment,  took  the 
frightened  kitten  in  her  kind,  gentle  mouth,  the 
way  all  mother-cats  do  (because  if  they  carried 
them  in  their  f  orepaws  they  would  n't  have 
enough  left  to  walk  on),  and  was  downstairs 
and  out  on  the  front  doorstep  before  the 
housemaid  had  finished  paying  the  man  for 
the  bundle.  And  when  she  got  that  chin 
qhilla  catkin  home  in  the  safe,  sunny  bay-win 


MRS.   CHINCHILLA.  145 

dow,  she  washed  it  over  and  over  and  over  so 
many  times  that  it  never  forgot,  so  long  as  it 
lived,  the  day  it  was  stolen  by  the  Boy. 

When  the  Boy's  mother  hurried  upstairs  to 
see  why  he  was  crying  so  lotid,  she  told  him 
that  he  must  expect  to  be  scratched  by  mother- 
cats  if  he  stole  their  kittens.  "  I  shall  take 
your  pretty  Fauntleroy  collar  off/'  she  said ; 
"  it  does  n't  match  your  disposition." 

The  Boy  cried  bitterly  until  luncheon  time^ 
but  when  he  came  to  think  over  the  matter,  he 
knew  that  his  mother  was  right,  and  Mrs. 
Chinchilla  was  right,  too  ;  so  he  treated  all 
mother -cats  and  their  kittens  more  kindly 
after  that. 


A  STORY   OF  THE  FOREST. 


"  It  is  not  the  gay  forms  he  meets  in  the  fairy-tale  which 
charm  the  child,  but  a  spiritual,  invisible  truth  lying  far 
deeper."  —  Froebel. 

Fab  away,  in  the  depths  of  a  great  green 
rustling  wood,  there  lived  a  Fir-tree.  She  was 
tall  and  dark  and  fragrant;  so  tall  that  her 
topmost  plumes  seemed  waving  about  in  the 
clouds,  and  her  branches  were  so  thick  and 
strong  and  close  set  that  down  below  them 
on  the  ground  it  was  dark  almost  as  night. 

There  were  many  other  trees  in  the  forest, 
as  tall  and  grand  as  she,  and  when  they  bent 
and  bowed  to  each  other,  as  the  wind  played 
in  their  branches,  you  could  hear  a  wonderful 
lovely  sound,  like  the  great  organ  when  it 
plays  softly  in  the  church. 

Down  below,  under  the  trees,  the  ground 
was  covered  with  a  glossy  brown  carpet  of  the 
sharp,  needle-like  leaves  the  fir-trees  had  lei 


A   STORY  OF  THE  FOREST.  147 

fall,  and  on  this  carpet  there  were  pointed 
brown  fir  cones  lying,  looking  dry  and  with- 
ered, and  yet  bearing  under  their  scales  many 
little  seeds,  hidden  away  like  very  precious 
letters  in  their  dainty  envelopes. 

Even  on  bright  summer  days  this  wood  was 
cool  and  dark,  and,  as  you  walked  about  on 
the  soft  brown  carpet,  you  could  hear  the 
wonderful  song  the  pine  needles  made  as  they 
rubbed  against  each  other;  and  perhaps  far 
away  in  the  top  of  some  tall  tree  you  could 
hear  the  wood-thrush  sing  out  gladly. 

All  around  the  great  Fir-tree,  where  her 
cones  had  dropped,  a  family  of  young  firs  was 
growing  up,  —  very  tiny  yet,  so  tiny  you  might 
have  crushed  them  as  you  walked,  and  not  felt 
them  under  your  foot. 

The  Fir-tree  spread  her  thick  branches  over 
them,  and  kept  off  the  fierce  wind  and  the 
bitter  cold,  and  under  her  shelter  they  were 
growing  strong. 

They  were  all  fine  little  trees,  but  one  of 
them,  that  stood  quite  apart  from  the  rest,  was 
the  finest  of  all,  very  straight  and  well  shaped 
and  handsome.  Every  day  he  looked  up  at 
the  mother-tree,  and   saw  how    straight   and 


148  A  STORY  OF  THE  FOREST. 

strong  she  grew,  —  how  the  wind  bent  and 
waved  her  branches,  but  did  not  stir  her  great 
trunk;  and  as  he  looked,  he  sent  his  own 
rootlets  farther  down  into  the  dark  earth,  and 
held  his  tiny  head  up  more  proudly. 

The  other  trees  did  not  all  try  to  grow  strong 
and  tall.  Indeed,  one  of  them  said,  "Why 
should  I  try  to  grow  ?  Who  can  see  me  here 
in  this  dark  wood  ?  What  good  will  it  do  for 
me  to  try  ?  I  can  never  be  as  fine  and  strong 
as  the  mother-tree." 

So  he  was  unhappy  and  hung  his  head,  and 
let  the  wind  blow  him  further  and  further 
over  toward  the  ground;  and  as  he  did  not 
care  for  his  rootlets,  they  lost  their  hold  in  the 
earth,  and  by  and  by  he  withered  quite  away. 

But  our  brave  little  Fir-tree  grew  on ;  and 
when  a  long  time  had  gone  by,  his  head  was 
on  a  level  with  his  mother's  lowest  branches, 
and  he  could  listen  and  hear  all  the  whisper- 
ing and  talking  that  went  on  among  the  great 
trees.  So  he  learned  many  things,  for  the 
trees  were  old  and  wise ;  and  the  birds,  who 
are  such  great  travelers,  had  told  them  many 
wonderful  things  that  had  happened  in  far-off 
lands. 


A   STORY  OF  THE  FOREST. 


149 


And  the  Fir-tree  asked  his  mother  many, 
many  questions.  "  Dear  mother-tree/'  he  said, 
"  shall  we  always  live  here  ?  Shall  I  keep  on 
growing  until  I  am  a  grand  tall  tree  like  you  ? 
And  will  you  always  be  with  me  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  !  "  said  the  mother-tree,  rus- 
tling in  all  her  branches.  "  If  we  are  stout- 
hearted, and  grow  strong  in  trunk  and  perfect 
in  shape,  then  perhaps  we  shall  be  taken  away 
from  the  forest  and  made  useful  somewhere, 
—  and  we  want  to  be  useful,  little  son." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  young  Fir- 
tree  made  himself  some  music  that  he  used  to 
whisper  when  the  winds  blew  and  rocked  his 
branches.  This  is  the  little  song,  but  I  can- 
not sing  it  as  he  did. 

SONG   OF   THE   FIR-TREE. 


=i=i= 


Root  grow  thou  long  -  er, heart  be  thou  strong-er ; 


i 


£ 


ft£ 


Let      the      sun    bless      me,      soft  -  ly      ca- 
pp  With  pattering  accompaniment.     . 


^£Ej^j=£jEg*=i£^g 


ress    me ;  Le£        rain  -    drops  pat  -  ter, 


150         .   A   STORY  OF  THE  FOREST. 


:  1 


I 


w- 


$-SFf::if&-^^-P:*-\t--p3—3- 


wind,    my    leaves    scat-ter.  My  root  must  grow 

mf     ^  rit. 


$St  i  >i.>-t  /irt*  11 


long  -  er,      my  heart  must  grow  stronger. 

"  Root,  grow  thou  longer, 
Heart,  be  thou  stronger ; 
Let  the  sun  bless  me, 
Softly  caress  me; 
Let  raindrops  patter, 
Wind,  my  leaves  scatter. 
My  root  must  grow  longer, 
My  heart  must  grow  stronger." 

And  one  day,  when  he  was  singing  this 
song  to  himself,  some  birds  fluttered  near, 
pleased  with  the  music,  and  as  he  seemed  kind 
they  began  to  build  their  nest  in  his  branches. 

Then  what  a  proud  Fir-tree,  that  the  birds 
should  choose  him  to  take  care  of  them !  He 
would  not  play  now  with  the  wind  as  it  came 
frolicking  by,  but  stood  straight,  that  he  might 
not  shake  the  pretty  soft  nest.  And  when  the 
eggs  were  laid  at  last,  all  his  leaves  stroked 
each  other  for  joy,  and  the  noise  they  made 
was  so  sweet  that  the  mother-tree  bent  over  to 
see  why  he  was  so  happy. 


A   STORY  OF  THE  FOREST.  151 

The  mother-bird  sat  patiently  on  the  nest 
all  day,  and  when,  now  and  then,  she  flew 
away  to  rest  her  tired  little  legs,  the  father- 
bird  came  to  keep  the  eggs  warm. 

So  the  Fir-tree  was  never  alone ;  and  now 
he  asked  the  birds  some  of  the  many  questions 
he  had  once  asked  his  mother.  "  Tell  me,  dear 
birdies,"  he  said,  "  what  does  the  mother-tree 
mean  ?  She  says  if  I  grow  strong,  I  shall  be 
taken  away  to  be  useful  somewhere.  How 
can  a  Fir-tree  be  useful  if  he  is  taken  away 
from  the  forest  where  he  was  born  ?  " 

So  the  birds  told  him  how  he  coirid  be  use- 
ful :  how  perhaps  men  might  take  him  for  the 
mast  of  a  ship,  and  fasten  to  him,  strong  and 
firm,  the  great  white  sails  that  send  the  ship 
like  a  bird  over  the  water ;  or  that  he  might 
be  used  to  hold  a  bright  flag,  as  it  waved  in 
the  wind.  Then  the  mother-bird  thought  of 
the  happy  Christmas  time,  for  the  birds  and 
flowers  and  trees  know  all  about  it ;  and  she 
told  the  Fir  of  the  Christmas  greens  that  were 
cut  in  the  forest ;  of  the  branches  and  boughs 
that  were  used  to  make  the  houses  fresh  and 
bright ;  and  of  the  Christmas  trees,  on  which 
gifts  were  hung  for  the  children.         " 


152  A   STORY  OF  THE  FOREST. 

Now  the  Fir-tree  had  seen  some  children 
one  day,  and  he  knew  about  their  bright  eyes, 
and  their  rosy  cheeks,  and  their  dear  soft  little 
hands.  The  day  they  came  into  the  woods, 
they  had  made  a  ring  and  danced  about  him, 
and  one  little  girl  had  held  up  her  finger,  and 
asked  the  others  to  hush  and  hear  the  son£ 
he  was  singing. 

So  of  all  the  things  the  birds  had  told  him, 
the  sweetest  to  him  was  about  the  Christmas 
tree.  If  only  he  might  be  a  Christmas  tree, 
and  have  the  children  dance  about  him  again, 
and  feel  their  presents  among  his  green 
branches ! 

So  he  did  all  that  a  little  tree  could  do  to 
grow  strong  in  every  part,  and  each  day  he 
sang  his  song :  — 

"  Root,  grow  thou  longer, 
Heart,  grow  thou  stronger  ; 
Sweet  sunshine,  bless  me, 
Softly  caress  me  ; 
Cold  raindrops,  patter, 
Wind,  my  leaves  scatter. 
My  roots  must  grow  longer, 
My  heart  must  grow  stronger." 

Soon  the  days  began  to  grow  cold.  The 
birdlings  who  had  been  born  in  the  Fir-tree's 


A   STORY  OF  THE  FOREST.  153 

branches  had  gone  far  away  to  the  South. 
The  father  and  mother  bird  had  gone  too,  and 
[>n  the  way  had  stopped  to  say  good-by  to  the 
brave  little  tree. 

The  white  snow  had  fallen  in  gentle  flakes, 
and  covered  the  cones  and  the  glossy  carpet  of 
pine  needles.  All  was  still  and  shining  and 
cold  in  the  forest,  and  the  great  trees  seemed 
taller  and  darker  than  ever. 

One  day  some  men  came  into  the  wood  with 
saws  and  ropes  and  axes,  and  cut  down  many 
of  the  great  trees,  and  among  these  was  the 
mother-fir.  They  fastened  oxen  to  all  the 
trees,  and  dragged  them  away,  rustling  and 
waving,  over  the  smooth  snow. 

The  mother-tree  had  gone,  —  "  gone  to  be 
useful,"  said  the  little  Fir;  and  though  he 
missed  her  very  much,  and  the  world  seemed 
very  empty  when  he  looked  up  and  no  longer 
saw  her  thick  branches  and  her  strong  trunk, 
yet  he  was  not  unhappy,  for  he  was  a  brave 
little  Fir. 

Still  the  days  grew  colder,  and  often  the  Fir- 
tree  wondered  if  the  children  who  had  made  a 
ring  and  danced  about  him  would  remember 
him  when  Christmas  time  came. 


154  A   STORY  OF  THE  FOREST. 


He  could  not  grow,  for  the  weather  was  too 
cold,  and  so  he  had  the  more  time  for  think- 
ing. He  thought  of  the  birds,  of  the  mother- 
tree,  and,  most  of  all,  of  the  little  girl  who  had 
lifted  her  finger,  and  said,  "  Hush !  hear  the 
Fir-tree  sing." 

Sometimes  the  days  seemed  long,  and  he 
sighed  in  all  his  branches,  and  almost  thought 
he  would  never  be  a  Christmas  tree. 

But  suddenly,  one  day,  he  heard  something 
far  away  that  sounded  like  the  ringing  of 
Christmas  bells.  It  was  the  children  laughing 
and  singing,  as  they  ran  over  the  snow. 

Nearer  they  came,  and  stood  beside  the  Fir. 
"  Yes,"  said  the  little  girl,  "  it  is  my  very  tree, 
my  very  singing  tree  !  " 

"Indeed,"  said  the  father,  "it  will  be  a 
good  Christmas  tree.  See  how  straight  and 
well  shaped  it  is." 

Then  the  tree  was  glad ;  not  proud,  for  ha 
was  a  good  little  Fir,  but  glad  that  they  saw 
he  had  tried  his  best. 

So  they  cut  him  down  and  carried  him  away 
on  a  great  sled ;  away  from  the  tall  dark  trees, 
"^rom  the  white  shining  snow-carpet  at  their 


'     NOT  ALL  FIRS  CAN  BE  CHRISTMAS  TREES '  "     (page  155) 


A  STORY  OF  THE  FOREST.  155 

feet,  and  from  all  the  murmuring  and  whisper- 
ing that  go  on  within  the  forest. 

The  little  trees  stood  on  tiptoe  and  waved 
their  green  branches  for  "  Good-by,"  and  the 
great  trees  bent  their  heads  to  watch  him  go. 

"  Not  all  firs  can  be  Christmas  trees/'  said 
they ;  "  only  those  who  grow  their  best." 

The  good  Fir-tree  stood  in  the  children's 
own  room.  Round  about  his  feet  were  flowers 
and  mosses  and  green  boughs.  From  his 
branches  hung  toys  and  books  and  candies, 
and  at  the  end  of  each  glossy  twig  was  a 
bright  glittering  Christmas  candle. 

The  doors  were  slowly  opened ;  the  children 
came  running  in;  and  when  they  saw  the 
shining  lights,  and  the  Christmas  tree  proudly 
holding  their  presents,  they  made  a  ring,  and 
danced  about  him,  singing. 

And  the  Fir-tree  was  very  happy ! 


PICCOLA. 

SUGGESTED  BY   ONE   OF  MRS.  CELIA  THAXTER'S   POEMSo 


"  Story-telling  is  a  real  strengthening  spirit-bath."  — 
Froebel. 

Piccola  lived  in  Italy,  where  the  oranges 
grow,  and  where  all  the  year  the  sun  shines 
warm  and  bright.  I  suppose  you  think  Pio- 
cola  a  very  strange  name  for  a  little  girl; 
but  in  her  country  it  was  not  strange  at  all 
and  her  mother  thought  it  the  sweetest  name 
a  little  girl  ever  had. 

Piccola  had  no  kind  father,  no  big  bro- 
ther or  sister,  and  no  sweet  baby  to  play 
with  and  to  love.  She  and  her  mother  lived 
all  alone  in  an  old  stone  house  that  looked  on 
a  dark,  narrow  street.  They  were  very  poor, 
and  the  mother  was  away  from  home  almost 
every  day,  washing  clothes  and  scrubbing 
floors,  and  working  hard  to  earn  money  foi 


PICCOLA.  157 

her  little  girl  and  herself.  So  you  see  Piccola 
was  alone  a  great  deal  of  the  time;  and  if  she 
had  not  been  a  very  happy,  contented  little 
child,  I  hardly  know  what  she  would  have 
done.  She  had  no  playthings  except  a  heap 
1  of  stones  in  the  back  yard  that  she  used  for 
building  houses,  and  a  very  old,  very  ragged 
doll  that  her  mother  had  found  in  the  street 
one  day. 

But  there  was  a  small  round  hole  in  the 
stone  wall  at  the  back  of  her  yard,  and  her 
greatest  pleasure  was  to  look  through  that 
into  her  neighbor's  garden.  When  she  stood 
on  a  stone,  and  put  her  eyes  close  to  the  hole, 
she  could  see  the  green  grass  in  the  garden, 
smell  the  sweet  flowers,  and  even  hear  the 
water  plashing  into  the  fountain.  She  had 
never  seen  any  one  walking  in  the  garden,  for 
it  belonged  to  an  old  gentleman  who  did  not 
care  about  grass  and  flowers. 

One  day  in  the  autumn  her  mother  told  her 
that  the  old  gentleman  had  gone  away,  and 
had  rented  his  house  to  a  family  of  little 
American  children,  who  had  come  with  their 
sick  mother  to  spend  the  winter  in  Italy. 
After  this,  Piccola  was  never  lonely,  for  all 


158  PICCOLA. 

day  long  the  children  ran  and  played  and 
danced  and  sang  in  the  garden.  It  was  sev- 
eral weeks  before  they  saw  her  at  all,  and  I 
am  not  sure  they  would  ever  have  done  so 
but  that  one  day  the  kitten  ran  away,  and  in 
chasing  her  they  came  close  to  the  wall,  and 
saw  Piccola's  black  eyes  looking  through  the 
hole  in  the  stones.  They  were  a  little  fright- 
ened at  first,  and  did  not  speak  to  her ;  but  the 
next  day  she  was  there  again,  and  Rose,  the 
oldest  girl,  went  up  to  the  wall  and  talked  to 
her  a  little  while.  When  the  children  found 
that  she  had  no  one  to  play  with  and  was  very 
lonely,  they  talked  to  her  every  day,  and  often 
brought  her  fruits  and  candies,  and  passed 
them  through  the  hole  in  the  wall. 

One  day  they  even  pushed  the  kitten 
through ;  but  the  hole  was  hardly  large  enough 
for  her,  and  she  mewed  and  scratched,  and 
was  very  much  frightened.  After  that  the 
little  boy  said  he  should  ask  his  father  if  the 
hole  might  not  be  made  larger,  and  then  Pic- 
cola  could  come  in  and  play  with  them.  The 
father  had  found  out  that  Piccola's  mother 
was  a  good  woman,  and  that  the  little  girl  her- 
self was  sweet  and  kind,  so  that  he  was  very 


PICCOLA.  159 

glad  to  have  some  of  the  stones  broken  away, 
and  an  opening  made  for  Piceola  to  come  in. 

How  excited  she  was,  and  how  glad  the 
children  were  when  she  first  stepped  into  the 
garden !  She  wore  her  best  dress,  a  long  bright- 
colored  woolen  skirt  and  a  white  waist.  Round 
her  neck  was  a  string  of  beads,  and  on  her 
feet  were  little  wooden  shoes.  It  would  seem 
very  strange  to  us  —  would  it  not  ?  —  to  wear 
wooden  shoes;  but  Piceola  and  her  mother 
had  never  worn  anything  else,  and  never  had 
any  money  to  buy  stockings.  Piceola  almost 
always  ran  about  barefooted,  like  the  kittens 
and  the  chickens  and  the  little  ducks.  What 
a  good  time  they  had  that  day,  and  how  glad 
Piceola' s  mother  was  that  her  little  girl  could 
have  such  a  pleasant,  safe  place  to  play  in, 
while  she  was  away  at  work  ! 

By  and  by  December  came,  and  the  little 
Americans  began  to  talk  about  Christmas. 
One  day,  when  Piccola's  curly  head  and  bright 
eyes  came  peeping  through  the  hole  in  the 
wall,  they  ran  to  her  and  helped  her  in ;  and 
as  they  did  so,  they  all  asked  her  at  once  what 
she  thought  she  would  have  for  a  Christmas 
present.  "  A  Christmas  present !  "  said  Pic- 
eola.    "  Why,  what  is  that  ?  " 


160  PICCOLA. 

All  the  children  looked  surprised  at  this, 
and  Rose  said,  rather  gravely,  "  Dear  Piccola, 
don't  you  know  what  Christmas  is  ?  " 

Oh,  yes,  Piccola  knew  it  was  the  happy  day 
when  the  baby  Christ  was  born,  and  she  had 
been  to  church  on  that  day,  and  heard  the 
beautiful  singing,  and  had  seen  a  picture  of 
the  Babe  lying  in  the  manger,  with  cattle  and 
sheep  sleeping  round  about.  Oh,  yes,  she 
knew  all  that  very  well,  but  what  was  a 
Christmas  present  ? 

Then  the  children  began  to  laugh,  and  to 
answer  her  all  together.  There  was  such  s, 
clatter  of  tongues  that  she  could  hear  only 
a  few  words  now  and  then,  such  as  "  chim- 
ney," "  Santa  Claus,"  "  stockings,"  "  rein- 
deer," "  Christmas  Eve,"  "  candies  and  toys." 
Piccola  put  her  hands  over  her  ears,  and  said, 
"  Oh,  I  can't  understand  one  word.  You  tell 
me,  Rose."  Then  Rose  told  her  all  about  jolly 
old  Santa  Claus,  with  his  red  cheeks  and 
white  beard  and  fur  coat,  and  about  his  rein- 
deer and  sleigh  full  of  toys.  "  Every  Christ- 
mas Eve,"  said  Rose,  "he  comes  down  the 
chimney,  and  fills  the  stockings  of  all  the 
good  children ;  so,  Piccola,  you  hang  up  your 


PICCOLA.  161 

stocking,  and  who  knows  what  a  beautiful 
Christmas  present  you  will  find  when  morning 
comes  !  "  Of  course  Piccola  thought  this  was 
a  delightful  plan,  and  was  very  pleased  to 
hear  about  it.  Then  all  the  children  told  her 
of  every  Christmas  Eve  they  could  remember, 
and  of  the  presents  they  had  had;  so  that  she 
went  home  thinking  of  nothing  but  dolls,  and 
hoops,  and  balls,  and  ribbons,  and  marbles,  and 
wagons,  and  kites. 

She  told  her  mother  about  Santa  Claus, 
and  her  mother  seemed  to  think  that  perhaps 
he  did  not  know  there  was  any  little  girl  in 
that  house,  and  very  likely  he  would  not  come 
at  all.  But  Piccola  felt  very  sure  Santa  Claus 
would  remember  her,  for  her  little  friends  had 
promised  to  send  a  letter  up  the  chimney  to 
remind  him. 

Christmas  Eve  came  at  last.  Piccola' s  mother 
hurried  home  from  her  work ;  they  had  their 
little  supper  of  soup  and  bread,  and  soon  it 
was  bedtime,  —  time  to  get  ready  for  Santa 
Claus.  But  oh!  Piccola  remembered  then 
for  the  first  time  that  the  children  had  told 
her  she  must  hang  up  her  stocking,  and  sh< 
had  n't  any,  and  neither  had  her  mother. 


162  PIC  COLA. 

How  sad,  how  sad  it  was !  Now  Santa 
Claus  would  come,  and  perhaps  be  angry  be- 
cause he  could  n't  find  any  place  to  put  the 
present. 

The  poor  little  girl  stood  by  the  fireplace, 
and  the  big  tears  began  to  run  down  her 
cheeks.  Just  then  her  mother  called  to  her, 
"  Hurry,  Piccola;  come  to  bed."  What  should 
she  do  ?  But  she  stopped  crying,  and  tried 
to  think;  and  in  a  moment  she  remembered 
her  wooden  shoes,  and  ran  off  to  get  one  of 
them.  She  put  it  close  to  the  chimney,  and 
said  to  herself,  "  Surely  Santa  Claus  will  know 
what  it 's  there  for.  He  will  know  I  have  n't 
any  stockings,  so  I  gave  him  the  shoe  in- 
stead." 

Then  she  went  off  happily  to  her  bed,  and 
was  asleep  almost  as  soon  as  she  had  nestled 
close  to  her  mother's  side. 

The  sun  had  only  just  begun  to  shine,  next 
morning,  when  Piccola  awoke.  With  one  jump 
she  was  out  on  the  floor  and  running  toward  the 
chimney.  The  wooden  shoe  was  lying  where 
she  had  left  it,  but  you  could  never,  never 
guess  what  was  in  it. 

Piccola  had  not  meant  to  wake  her  mother, 


"  *  SEE  THE  PRESENT  SANTA  CLAUS  BROUGHT  ME '  »  (page  163) 


PICCOLA.  163 

but  this  surprise  was  more  than  any  little  girl 
could  bear  and  yet  be  quiet ;  so  she  danced  to 
the  bed  with  the  shoe  in  her  hand,  calling, 
u  Mother,  mother  !  look,  look !  see  the  present 
Santa  Claus  brought  me  !  " 

Her  mother  raised  her  head  and  looked 
into  the  shoe.  "  Why,  Piccola,"  she  said, 
"a  little  chimney  swallow  nestling  in  your 
shoe  ?  What  a  good  Santa  Claus  to  bring 
you  a  bird  !  " 

"  Good  Santa  Claus,  dear  Santa  Claus  !  " 
cried  Piccola ;  and  she  kissed  her  mother  and 
kissed  the  bird  and  kissed  the  shoe,  and  even 
threw  kisses  up  the  chimney,  she  was  so 
happy. 

When  the  birdling  was  taken  out  of  the 
shoe,  they  found  that  he  did  not  try  to  fly, 
only  to  hop  about  the  room;  and  as  they 
looked  closer,  they  could  see  that  one  of  his 
wings  was  hurt  a  little.  But  the  mother  bound 
it  up  carefully,  so  that  it  did  not  seem  to  pain 
him,  and  he  was  so  gentle  that  he  took  a  drink 
of  water  from  a  cup,  and  even  ate  crumbs  and 
seeds  from  Piccola's  hand.  She  was  a  proud 
little  girl  when  she  took  her  Christmas  present 
to  show  the  children  in  the  garden.    They  had 


164  PICCOLA. 

had  a  great  many  gifts,  —  dolls  that  could  say 
''  mamma/'  bright  picture-books,  trains  of  cars, 
toy  pianos ;  but  not  one  of  their  playthings 
was  alive,  like  Piccola' s  birdling.  They  were 
as  pleased  as  she,  and  Rose  hunted  about  the 
house  till  she  found  a  large  wicker  cage  that 
belonged  to  a  blackbird  she  once  had.  She 
gave  the  cage  to  Piccola,  and  the  swallow 
seemed  to  make  himself  quite  at  home  in  it  at 
once,  and  sat  on  the  perch  winking  his  bright 
eyes  at  the  children.  Rose  had  saved  a  bag  of 
candies  for  Piccola,  and  when  she  went  home 
at  last,  with  the  cage  and  her  dear  swallow 
safely  inside  it,  I  am  sure  there  was  not  a 
happier  little  girl  in  the  whole  country  of 
Italy. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  WORLD. 


I  see  a  nest  in  a  green  elm-tree 

With  little  brown  sparrows,  —  one,  two,  three ! 

The  elm-tree  stretches  its  branches  wide, 

And  the  nest  is  soft  and  warm  inside. 

At  morn,  the  sun,  so  golden  bright, 

Climbs  up  to  fill  the  world  with  light ; 

It  opens  the  flowers,  it  wakens  me, 

And  wakens  the  birdies,  —  one,  two,  three^ 

And  leaning  out  of  my  window  high, 

I  look  far  up  at  the  blue,  blue  sky, 

And  then  far  out  at  the  earth  so  green, 

And  think  it  the  loveliest  ever  seen,  — 

The  loveliest  world  that  ever  was  seen ! 

But  by  and  by,  when  the  sun  is  low, 
And  birds  and  babies  sleepy  grow, 
I  peep  again  from  my  window  high, 
And  look  at  the  earth  and  clouds  and  sky. 
The  night  dew  comes  in  silent  showers, 
To  cool  the  hearts  of  thirsty  flowers ; 


166         THE   CHILD  AND   THE  WORLD. 

The  moon  comes  out,  —  the  slender  thing, 
A  crescent  yet,  but  soon  a  ring,  — 
And  brings  with  her  one  yellow  star ; 
How  small  it  looks,  away  so  far  ! 
But  soon,  in  the  heaven's  shining  blue, 
A  thousand  twinkle  and  blink  at  you, 
Like  a  thousand  lamps  in  the  sky  so  blue. 

And  hush  !  a  light  breeze  stirs  the  tree, 
And  rocks  the  birdies,  —  one,  two,  three. 
What  a  beautiful  cradle,  that  soft,  warm  nest ! 
What   a  dear   little   coverlid,  mamma  -  bird's 

breast ! 
She 's  hugging  them  close  to  her,  —  tight,  so 

tight 
That  each  downy  head  is  hid  from  sight ; 
But  out  from  under  her  sheltering  wings 
Their    bright    eyes    glisten,  —  the     darling 

things  ! 
I  lean  far  out  from  my  window's  height 
And  say,  "  Dear,  lovely  world,  good-night ! 

*  Good-night,  dear,  pretty  baby  moon  ! 
Your  cradle  you  '11  outgrow  quite  soon, 
And  then,  perhaps,  all  night  you  '11  shine, 
A  grown-up  lady  moon  !  —  so  fine 


THE   CHILD  AND   THE  WORLD.         167 

Aixd  bright  that  all  the  stars 

Will  want  to  light  their  lamps  from  yours 

Sleep  sweetly,  birdies,  never  fear, 

For  God  is  always  watching  near  ! 

And  you,  dear,  friendly  world  above, 

The  same  One  holds  us  in  His  love : 

Both  you  so  great,  and  I  so  small, 

Are  safe,  —  He  sees  the  sparrow's  fall,  — • 

The  dear  God  watcheth  over  all ! " 


WHEN  I  WAS  A  LITTLE  GIRL. 


OUR  FROGGERY. 


*  Turn  back  observantly  into  your  own  youth,  and  awaken, 
warm,  and  vivify  the  eternal  youth  of  your  mind."  — 
Froebel. 

When  I  was  a  little  girl  my  sister  and  I 
lived  in  the  country.  She  was  younger  than 
I,  and  the  dearest,  fattest  little  toddlekins  of  a 
sister  you  ever  knew.  She  always  wanted  to 
do  exactly  as  I  did,  so  that  I  had  to  be  very 
careful  and  do  the  right  things  ;  for  if  I  had 
been  naughty  she  would  surely  have  been 
naughty  too,  and  that  would  have  made  me 
very  sad. 

As  we  lived  in  the  country  we  had  none  of 
the  things  to  amuse  us  that  city  children  have. 
We  could  n't  walk  in  crowded  streets  and  see 
people  and  look  in  at  beautiful  shop-windows, 
or  hear  the    street-organs  play  and  see  the 


WHEN  I  WAS  A   LITTLE   GIRL.         169 

Oionkeys  do  tricks  ;  we  could  n't  go  to  dan- 
cing school,  nor  to  children's  parties,  nor  to  the 
circus  to  see  the  animals. 

But  we  had  lovely  plays,  after  all. 

In  the  spring  we  hunted  for  mayflowers, 
and  sailed  boats  in  the  brooks,  and  gathered 
fluffy  pussy-willows.  We  watched  the  yellow 
dandelions  come,  one  by  one,  in  the  short 
green  grass,  and  we  stood  under  the  maple- 
trees  and  watched  the  sap  trickle  from  their 
trunks  into  the  great  wooden  buckets ;  for 
that  maple  sap  was  to  be  boiled  into  maple 
sugar  and  syrup,  and  we  liked  to  think  about 
it.  In  the  summer  we  went  strawberrying  and 
blueberrying,  and  played  "  hide  and  coop  " 
behind  the  tall  yellow  haycocks,  and  rode  on 
the  top  of  the  full  haycarts. 

In  the  fall  we  went  nutting,  and  pressed 
red  and  yellow  autumn  leaves  between  the 
pages  of  our  great  Webster's  Dictionary ;  we 
gathered  apples,  and  watched  the  men  at  work 
at  the  cider-presses,  and  the  farmers  as  they 
threshed  their  wheat  and  husked  their  corn. 
And  in  the  winter  we  made  snow  men,  and 
slid  downhill  from  morning  till  night  when 
there  was  any  snow  to  slide  upon,  and  went 


170        WHEN  I  WAS  A    LITTLE  GIRL. 

sleighing  behind  our  dear  old  horse  Jack,  and 
roasted  apples  in  the  ashes  of  the  great  oper 
fire. 

But  one  of  the  things  we  cared  for  most 
was  our  froggery,  and  we  used  to  play  there 
for  hours  together  in  the  long  summer  days. 

Perhaps  you  don't  know  what  a  froggery 
is;  but  you  do  know  what  a  frog  is,  and  so 
you  can  guess  that  a  froggery  is  a  place  where 
frogs  live.  My  little  sister  and  I  used  at  first 
to  catch  the  frogs  and  keep  them  in  tin  cans 
filled  with  water  ;  but  when  we  thought  about 
it  we  saw  that  the  poor  froggies  could  n't 
enjoy  this,  and  that  it  was  cruel  to  take  them 
away  from  their  homes  and  make  them  live  in 
unfurnished  tin  houses.  So  one  day  I  asked 
my  father  if  he  would  give  us  a  part  of  the 
garden  brook  for  our  very  own.  He  laughed, 
and  said,  "  Yes,"  if  we  would  n't  carry  it 
away. 

Our  garden  was  as  large  as  four  or  five  city 
blocks,  and  a  beautiful  silver -clear  brook 
flowed  through  it,  turning  here  and  there, 
and  here  and  there  breaking  into  tinkling  lit- 
tle waterfalls,  and  dropping  gently  into  clear, 
still  pools. 


WHEN  I  WAS  A   LITTLE  GIRL.         171 

It  was  one  of  these  deep,  quiet  pools  that 
we  chose  for  our  froggery.  It  was  almost 
hidden  on  two  sides  by  thick  green  alder- 
bushes,  so  that  it  was  always  cool  and  pleasant 
there,  even  on  the  hottest  days. 

My  father  put  pieces  of  fine  wire  netting 
into  the  water  on  each  of  the  four  sides  of 
the  pool,  and  so  arranged  them  that  we  could 
slip  those  on  the  banks  up  and  down  as  we 
pleased.  Whenever  we  went  there  we  always 
took  away  the  side  fences,  and  sat  flat  down 
upon  the  smooth  stones  at  the  edges  of  the 
brook  and  played  with  the  frogs. 

Here  we  used  to  watch  our  gay  young  pol- 
liwogs  grow  into  frogs,  one  leg  at  a  time  com- 
ing out  at  each  "corner"  of  their  fat  wrig- 
gling bodies.  We  kept  two  great  bull-frogs, 
—  splendid  bass  singers  both  of  them,  —  that 
had  been  stoned  by  naughty  small  boys,  and 
left  for  dead  by  the  roadside.  We  found 
them  there,  bound  up  their  broken  legs  and 
bruised  backs,  and  nursed  them  quite  well 
again  in  one  corner  of  the  froggery  that  we 
called  the  hospital.  In  another  corner  was 
the  nursery,  and  here  we  kept  all  the  tiniest 
frogs ;  though  we  always  let  them  out  once  a 


172         WHEN  I  WAS  A   LITTLE   GIRL. 

day  to  play  with  the  older  ones,  for  fear  that 
they  never  would  learn  anything  if  they  were 
kept  entirely  to  themselves. 

One  of  our  great  bull-frogs  grew  so  strong 
and  well,  after  being  in  the  hospital  for  a  while, 
that  he  jumped  over  the  highest  of  the  wire 
fences,  which  was  two  feet  higher  than  any 
frog  ever  was  known  to  jump,  so  our  hired 
man  said,  —  jumped  over  and  ran  away.  We 
called  him  the  "  General,"  because  he  was 
the  largest  of  our  frogs  and  the  oldest,  we 
thought.  (He  had  n't  any  gray  hairs,  but  he 
was  very  much  wrinkled.)  We  were  sorry  to 
lose  the  General,  and  could  n't  think  why  he 
should  run  away,  when  we  gave  him  such  good 
things  to  eat  and  tried  to  make  him  so  happy. 
My  father  said  that  perhaps  his  home  was  in 
a  large  pond,  some  distance  off,  where  there 
were  so  many  hundred  frogs  that  it  was  quite 
a  gay  city  life  for  them,  while  the  froggery 
was  in  a  quiet  brook  in  our  quiet  old  garden. 
(If  I  were  a  frog,  it  seems  to  me  I  should  like 
such  a  home  better  than  a  great  noisy  stag- 
nant pond  near  the  road,  where  I  should  be 
frightened  to  death  half  a  dozen  times  a  day 
but  there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes  !) 


•WE  WERE  SORRY  TO  LOSE  THE  GENERAL"    (page  172) 


WHEN  I  WAS  A   LITTLE   GIRL,         173 

But  what  do  you  think?  After  staying 
away  for  three  days  and  nights  the  General 
came  back  safe  and  sound  !  We  knew  it  was 
our  own  beloved  General,  and  not  any  com- 
mon stranger-frog,  because  there  was  the  scar 
on  his  back  where  the  boys  had  stoned  him. 
My  little  sister  thought  that  perhaps  the  Gen- 
eral was  born  in  Lily  Pad  Pond,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  village,  and  only  went  back  to  get 
a  sight  of  the  pond  lilies,  which  were  just  in 
full  bloom.  If  that  was  so,  I  cannot  blame 
the  General ;  for  snow-white  pond  lilies,  with 
their  golden  hearts  and  the  green  frills  round 
their  necks,  are  the  loveliest  things  in  the 
world,  as  they  float  among  their  shiny  pads  on 
the  surface  of  the  pond.  Did  you  ever  see 
them? 

All  our  frogs  had  names  of  their  own,  of 
course,  and  we  knew  them  all  apart,  although 
they  looked  just  alike  to  other  people.  There 
was  Prince  Pouter,  Brownie,  and  Goldilegs; 
Bright-Eye,  Chirp,  and  Gray  Friar;  Hop-o'* 
my-Thumb,  Croaker,  Baby  Mine,  Nimblefoot, 
Tiny  Tim,  and  many  others. 

We  were  so  afraid  that  our  frogs  would  n't 
like  the  froggery  better  than  any  other  place 


174         WHEN  I  WAS  A   LITTLE   GIRL. 

in  the  brook  that  we  gave  them  all  the  plea- 
sures we  could  think  of.  They  always  had 
plenty  of  fat  juicy  flies  and  water-bugs  for 
their  dinners,  and  after  a  while  we  put  some 
silver  shiners  and  tiny  minnows  into  the  pool, 
so  that  they  would  have  fishes  to  play  with  as 
well  as  other  frogs.  You  know  you  do  not 
always  like  to  play  with  other  children ;  some- 
times  you  like  kittens  and  dogs  and  birds  bet- 
ter. 

Then  we  gave  our  frogs  little  vacations 
once  in  a  while.  We  tied  a  long  soft  woolen 
string  very  gently  round  one  of  their  hind 
legs,  fastened  it  to  a  twig  of  one  of  the  alder- 
bushes,  and  let  them  take  a  long  swim  and 
make  calls  on  all  their  friends. 

We  had  a  singing-school  for  them  once  a 
week.  It  was  very  troublesome,  for  they 
did  n't  like  to  stand  in  line  a  bit,  and  it  is 
quite  useless  to  try  and  teach  a  class  in  sing- 
ing unless  the  scholars  will  stand  in  a  row  or 
keep  in  some  sort  of  order.  We  used  to  put 
a  nice  little  board  across  the  pool,  and  then  try 
to  get  the  frogs  to  sit  quietly  in  line  during 
their  lesson.  The  General  behaved  quite 
nicely,  and  really  got  into  the  spirit  of  the 


WHEN  I  WAS  A   LITTLE   GIRL.         175 

thing,  so  that  he  was  a  splendid  example  for 
the  head  of  the  class.  Then  we  used  to  put 
Myron  W.  Whitney  next  in  line,  on  account 
of  his  beautiful  bass  voice.  We  named  him 
after  a  gentleman  who  had  once  sung  in  our 
church,  and  I  hope  if  he  ever  heard  of  it  he 
did  n't  mind,  for  the  frog  was  really  a  credit 
to  him.  Myron  W.  Whitney  behaved  nearly 
as  well  as  the  General,  but  we  could  never  get 
him  to  sing  unless  we  held  the  class  just  be- 
fore bedtime,  and  then  the  little  frogs  were 
so  sleepy  that  they  kept  tumbling  out  of  the 
singing-school  into  the  pool.  That  was  the 
trouble  with  them  all ;  they  never  could  quite 
see  the  difference  between  school  and  pool. 
It  seems  to  me  they  must  have  known  it  was 
very  slight  after  all. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  summer  we  had 
trained  them  so  well  that  once  in  a  long  while 
we  could  actually  get  them  all  still  at  once, 
and  all  facing  the  right  way  as  they  sat  upon 
that  board.  Oh  !  it  was  a  beautiful  sight, 
and  worth  any  amount  of  trouble  and  work  ! 
Twenty-one  frogs  in  a  row,  all  in  fresh  green 
suits,  with  clean  white  shirt  fronts,  washed 
every  day.      The    General   and    Myron    W. 


176         WHEN  I  WAS  A   LITTLE   GIRL. 

Whitney  always  looked  as  if  they  were  burst 
ing  with  pride,  and  as  they  were  too  fat  and 
lazy  to  move,  we  could  generally  count  upon 
their  good  behavior. 

We  thought  that  if  we  could  only  get  them 
to  look  down  into  the  pool,  which  made  such 
a  lovely  looking-glass,  and  just  see  for  once 
what  a  beautiful  picture  they  made,  —  sitting 
so  straight  and  still,  and  all  so  nicely  graded 
as  to  size,  —  they  would  like  it  better  and  do 
it  a  little  more  willingly. 

We  thought,  too,  the  baby  frogs  would  be 
ashamed,  when  they  looked  in  the  glass,  to 
see  that  while  the  big  frogs  stayed  still  of 
their  own  free  will,  they  had  to  be  held  down 
with  forked  sticks.  But  we  could  never  dis- 
cover that  they  were  ashamed. 

So  when  everything  was  complete  my  little 
sister  used  to  "  let  go  "  of  the  baby  frogs  (for, 
as  I  said,  she  had  to  hold  them  down  while 
we  were  forming  the  line),  and  I  would  begin 
the  lesson.  Sometimes  they  would  listen  a 
minute,  and  then  they  would  begin  their 
pranks.  They  would  insist  on  playing  leap- 
frog, which  is  a  very  nice  game,  but  not  ap- 
propriate for  school.     Tiny  Tim  would  jump 


WHEN  I  WAS  A   LITTLE   GIRL.  177 

from  the  foot  of  the  class  straight  over  all 
the  others  on  to  Myron  W.  Whitney's  back. 
Baby  Mine  would  try  to  get  between  Croaker 
and  Goldilegs,  where  there  was  n't  any  room. 
Nimblefoot  would  twist  round  on  the  board 
and  turn  his  back  to  me,  which  was  very  im- 
polite, as  I  >vas  the  teacher.  Finally,  Hop-o'- 
my-Thumb  would  go  splash  into  the  pool,  and 
all  the  rest,  save  the  good  old  General,  would 
follow  him,  and  the  lesson  would  end.  I  sup- 
pose you  have  heard  frogs  singing  just  after 
sunset,  when  you  were  going  to  bed  ?  Some 
people  think  the  big  bull-frogs  say,  "  Jugd*- 
rum  !  JugoWum  !  JugoWum  !  "  But  I 
don't  think  this  is  at  all  likely,  as  the  frogs 
never  drink  anything  but  water  in  their  whole 
lives. 

We  used  to  think  that  some  of  the  frogs 
said,  "  Kerchug  !  Kerchug  !  "  and  that  the 
largest  one  said,  "  Gotacrumb  !  Gotacrumb  ! 
Gotacrumb  ! "  Perhaps  you  can't  make  it 
sound  right,  but  if  you  listen  to  the  frogs  you 
can  very  soon  do  it. 

We  thought  the  frogs  in  our  froggery  the 
very  best  singers  in  all  the  country  round. 
After  our  mother  had  tucked  us  in  our  littlf 


178         WHEN  I  WAS  A   LITTLE  GIRL. 

beds  and  kissed  us  good-night,  she  used  to 
open  the  window,  that  we  might  hear  the 
chirping  and  humming  and  kerchugging  of 
our  frogs  down  in  the  dear  old  garden. 

As  we  wandered  dreamily  off  into  Sand- 
man's Land,  the  very  last  sound  we  heard  was 
the  cheerful  chords  of  our  baby  frogs,  and  the 
deep  bass  notes  of  Myron  W.  Whitney  and 
the  old  General. 


i 


FROEBEL'S  BIRTHDAY. 


"The  whole  future  efficiency  of  man  is  seen  in  the  child 
as  a  germ."  —  Froebel. 

On  this  day,  children,  the  twenty-first  of 
April,  we  always  remember  our  dear  Froebel; 
for  it  was  his  birthday. 

We  bring  flowers  and  vines  to  hang  about 
his  picture,  we  sing  the  songs  and  play  the 
games  he  loved  the  best,  and  we  remember  the 
story  of  his  life.  We  thank  him  all  day  long ; 
for  he  made  the  kindergarten  for  us,  he  in- 
vented these  pretty  things  that  children  love 
to  do,  he  thought  about  all  the  pleasant  work 
and  pleasant  play  that  make  the  kindergarten 
such  a  happy  place. 

On  this  very  day,  more  than  a  hundred 
years  ago,  the  baby  Froebel  came  to  his 
happy  father  and  mother.  He  was  a  little 
German  baby,  like  Elsa's  brother  and  Fritz's 
little  sister,  and  when  he  began  to  talk  his 
first  words  were  German  ones. 


180  FROEBEUS  BIRTHDAY. 

But  the  dear  mother  did  not  stay  long  with 
her  little  Friedrich,  for  she  died  when  he  was  not 
a  year  old,  and  he  was  left  a  very  sad  and  lonely 
baby.  His  father  was  a  busy  minister,  who 
had  sermons  to  write,  and  sick  people  to  see, 
and  unhappy  people  to  comfort,  from  one  end 
of  the  week  to  the  other,  and  he  had  no  time 
to  attend  to  his  little  son ;  so  Friedrich  was  left 
to  the  housemaid,  who  was  too  busy  herself  to 
care  for  him  properly.  She  was  often  so  hur- 
ried that  she  was  obliged  to  shut  him  up  in  a 
room  alone,  to  keep  him  out  of  her  way,  and 
then  it  was  very  hard  work  for  the  child  to 
amuse  himself. 

The  only  window  in  this  room  looked  out 
on  a  church  that  workmen  were  repairing, 
and  Friedrich  often  watched  these  men,  and 
tried  to  do  just  as  they  did.  He  took  all  the 
small  pieces  of  furniture,  and  piled  one  on  top 
of  the  other  to  make  a  big,  big  church,  like 
the  one  outside ;  but  the  chairs  and  stools  did 
not  fit  each  other  very  well,  and  soon  the 
church  would  come  tumbling  about  his  head. 
When  Froebel  grew  to  be  a  man,  he  remem- 
bered this,  and  made  the  building  blocks  for 
us,  so  that  we  might  make  fine,  tall  churches 
and  houses  as  often  as  we  liked. 


FROEBEUS  BIRTHDAY.  181 

Froebel's  home  was  surrounded  by  other 
buildings,  and  was  close  to  the  great  church 
I  told  you  about.  There  were  fences  and 
hedges  all  around  the  house,  and  at  the  back 
there  were  sloping  fields,  stretching  up  a  high 
hiU. 

When  the  little  boy  grew  old  enough  to 
walk,  he  played  in  the  garden  alone,  a  great 
deal  of  the  time ;  but  he  was  not  allowed  to 
go  outside  at  all,  and  never  could  get  even  a 
glimpse  of  the  world  beyond.  He  could  only 
see  the  blue  sky  overhead,  and  feel  the  fresh 
wind  blowing  from  the  hills. 

His  father  had  no  time  for  him,  his  motheu 
was  dead,  and  I  think  perhaps  he  would  havo 
died  himself,  for  very  sadness  and  lonesome* 
ness,  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  older  brothers. 
Now  and  then,  when  they  were  at  home,  they 
played  and  talked  with  him,  and  he  grew  to 
3ove  them  very  dearly  indeed.  * 

When  Friedrich  was  four  years  old,  his 
father  brought  the  children  a  new  mother, 
and  for  a  time  the  little  boy  was  very  happy. 
The  mother  was  quite  kind  at  first ;  and  now 
Froebel  had  some  one  to  walk  with  in  the 
garden,  some  one  to  talk  with  in  the  daytime 


182  FROE BEL'S  BIRTHDAY. 

and  to  tuck  him  in  his  little  bed  at  night. 
But  by  and  by,  when  a  baby  boy  came  to  the 
new  mother,  she  had  no  more  room  in  her 
heart  for  poor  Friedrich,  and  he  was  more  mis- 
erable than  ever.  He  tried  to  be  a  good  boy, 
but  no  one  seemed  to  understand  him,  and  he 
was  often  blamed  for  naughty  things  he  had 
not  done,  and  was  never  praised  or  loved. 

When  he  had  learned  to  read  he  was  sent 
to  school,  though  not  with  other  boys,  for  his 
father  thought  it  better  for  him  to  be  with 
girls.  The  school  was  pleasant  and  quiet,  and 
Friedrich  liked  the  teacher  very  much.  Every 
morning  the  children  read  from  the  Bible,  and 
learned  sweet  songs  and  hymns  which  the  lit- 
tle boy  remembered  all  his  days. 

The  life  at  home  grew  no  happier.,  as  Fried- 
rich  grew  older ;  indeed,  he  seemed  to  be  more 
in  the  way  and  to  get  into  trouble  more  often. 

When  he  was  ten  years  old  his  uncle  came 
to  visit  them,  and  seeing  Friedrich  so  unhappy, 
and  fearing  he  would  not  grow  up  a  good 
boy  unless  some  one  cared  for  him,  the  good 
uncle  asked  to  be  allowed  to  take  the  child 
Vome  with  him  to  live. 

Now,  at  last,  Friedrich  had  five  happy  years ! 


FROEBEVS  BIRTHDAY.  183 

ffis  uncle  lived  in  a  pretty  town  on  the  banks 
of  a  sparkling  little  river.  Everything  was 
pleasant  in  the  house,  and  Friedrich  went  to 
school  with  forty  boys  of  his  own  age.  He 
jumped  and  ran  with  them  in  the  playgrounds, 
he  learned  to  play  all  kinds  of  games,  and  he 
was  happy  everywhere,  —  at  school,  at  home, 
at  church,  playing  or  working. 

When  these  five  pleasant  years  had  gone 
by,  Froebel  had  finished  school,  and  now  he 
must  decide  what  he  would  do  to  earn  his 
living.  He  had  always  loved  flowers,  since  the 
days  when  he  played  all  alone  in  his  father's 
garden,  and  he  liked  to  be  out-of-doors  and  to 
see  things  growing ;  so  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  be  a  surveyor,  like  our  George  Washington, 
you  know,  and  to  learn,  besides,  how  to  take 
care  of  trees  and  forests. 

He  studied  and  worked  very  hard  at  these 
things,  and  gained  a  great  deal  of  knowledge 
about  flowers  and  plants  and  trees  and  rocks. 

By  and  by  he  left  this  work  and  went  to 
college,  where  he  studied  a  long  time  and  grew 
to  be  very  wise  indeed.  There  were  numbers 
of  things  he  had  learned  to  do :  he  could 
measure  land,  take  care  of  woods,  and  draw 


184  FROEBEUS  BIRTHDAY. 

maps;  he  could  make  plans  of  houses,  and 
show  men  how  to  build  them ;  he  knew  all 
about  fine  stones  and  minerals,  and  could  sort 
and  arrange  them ;  but  he  found,  at  last,  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  world  he  liked  so  wel 
as  teaching,  for  he  loved  children  very  much, 
and  he  liked  to  be  with  them. 

When  Froebel  was  a  grown  man,  thirty 
years  old,  a  great  war  broke  out  in  Germany, 
and  he  went  away  to  fight  for  his  country;  like 
our  George  Washington  again,  you  see.  He 
marched  away  with  the  soldiers,  and  fought 
bravely  for  a  year ;  and  then  the  war  was  over, 
and  he  went  back  to  his  quiet  work  again. 

For  the  rest  of  his  life  Froebel  went  on 
teaching  all  kinds  of  people,  —  boys  and  men, 
and  young  girls  and  grown-up  women ;  but 
he  never  was  quite  happy  or  satisfied  till  he 
thought  of  teaching  tiny  children,  just  like  you. 

He   remembered   very   well   how   sad   and 
miserable  he  was  when  a  little  boy,  with  no 
one  to  love  him,  nobody  to  play  with,  and 
nothing  to  do ;  so  he  thought  of  the  kinder 
garten,  where   there  are   pleasant  playmates 
pretty  work,  happy  play  for  everybody,  anc 
teachers  who  love  little  children. 


FROEBEVS  BIRTHDAY.  185 

He  was  an  old  man  when  he  thought  of  the 
kindergarten ;  but  he  was  never  too  old  to  play 
with  children,  and  people  who  went  to  his 
country  home  used  to  see  him,  with  the  little 
ones  about  him,  playing  the  Pigeon  House, 
or  the  Wheel,  or  the  Farmer,  or  some  of  the 
games  he  made  for  us. 

He  was  often  very  poor,  and  he  worked 
very  hard  all  his  life ;  but  he  did  not  care  for 
this  at  all,  if  he  could  help  other  people  and 
make  children  happy.  And  when,  at  last,  it 
was  time  for  him  to  die,  and  to  go  back  to 
God,  who  sent  him  to  us,  he  was  quiet  and 
happy  through  all  his  sickness,  and  almost  the 
last  words  he  said  were  about  the  flowers  he 
loved  so  well,  and  about  God  who  had  been  so 
good  to  him. 

So  this  is  the  reason,  little  ones,  that  we 
keep  Froebel's  birthday  every  year,  —  because 
we  want  you  to  remember  all  he  did  for  little 
children,  and  to  learn  to  love  him  just  as  he 
loved  you. 


"  Come,  let  us  live  with  our  children  ;  so  shall  their  lives  bring 
peace  and  joy  to  us  j  w  shell  we  begin  to  be,  and  to  become  wise." 
—  Fkoebel. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .   A 


gMMMHHj 


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